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Full text of "Journey's end"

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Journey's End 



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MEMORIAL HALL LIBRARY 

ANDOVER, MASS. 



JUNIOR LIBRARY 

A book may be kept two weeks. The librarian 
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H B. MCARDLE 



JOURNEY'S END 



BOOKS BY 
EDNA A. BROWN 



FICTION 



THAT AFFAIR AT ST. PETER'S 
JOURNEY'S END 



FOR BOYS AND GIRLS 



FOUR GORDONS 

UNCLE DAVID'S BOYS 

WHEN MAX CAME 

ARNOLD'S LITTLE BROTHER 

ARCHER AND THE "PROPHET' 

THE SPANISH CHEST 

AT THE BUTTERFLY HOUSE 

RAINBOW ISLAND 

ROBIN HOLLOW 



FOR YOUNGER READERS 



THE SILVER BEAR 

THE CHINESE KITTEN 

WHISTLING ROCK 

THREE GATES 



LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO., BOSTON 



JOURNEY'S END 



By 
EDNA A. BROWN 




BOSTON 
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO, 



Copyright, 1921, 
By Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co- 



All Rights Reserved 



Journey*i End 



•KotwooO press 

BERWICK & SMITH CO. 

Norwood, Mass. 

U. S. A. 



CAf-1- 

lunior Library 



To 
« HARRIET and JOE 



^1 



44091 



CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. In Which Amory and Caroline Discuss 

THE Past, Present, and Future . . 1 1 

II. In Which Amory Misses a Train and 

Visits the D'Este Princess . . i8 

III. In Which Amory Arrives in Freeport . 30 

IV. In Which Amory Meets Two Girls and 

Rescues a Lady from^Peril ... 43 

V. In Which Amory Hears a Story and 

Makes an Important Decision . . 60 

VI. In Which Amory Visits John HowLAND . ']'] 

VII. In Which Amory Helps a Damsel in Dis- 
tress AND Sees the White wing Again . 93 

VIII. In Which Amory Considers the Dragon . 103 

IX. In Which Elizabeth Loses Her Temper 

AND Looks Over a High Wall . .114 

X. In Which Billy Thinks He is Dying . 125 

XI. In Which Amory Breaks a Glass Shade . 134 

XII. In Which Lydia Meets v^^ith Misfortune 

AND Amory Plans A Picnic . . -14^ 

XIII. In Which Amory and Elizabeth Go Sail- 

ing AND Something Mysterious Happens 158 

XIV. In Which Elizabeth Makes a Call and 

Amory Asks a Favor . . . .178 

XV. In Which Amory and Elizabeth Go to a 

Dance 190 

7 



CONTENTS 



XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 

XXII. 

XXIII. 

XXIV. 

XXV. 

XXVI. 

XXVII. 
XXVIII. 

XXIX. 



In Which Mr. Emerson Sleeps Late and 
His Daughter Receives a Message . 213 

In Which Amory Sails a Race and Tells 
A Girl That He Loves Her . .231 

In Which Amory and Elizabeth Follow 
the Primrose Path . . . .2^8 

In Which Aunt Eunice is III and Lydia 
Sees a Ghost . . . . , 268 

In Which Elizabeth is Superstitious and 
Amory is Sceptical .... 276 

In Which Caroline Discourses on 
Devils and Amory and Elizabeth Visit 
the Dunes 290 

In Which Elizabeth Loses Something 
Important 509 

In Which Elizabeth Acts in Haste . 323 

In Which Things Happen Thick and Fast 3 34 

In Which Aunt Eunice Considers Amory 
Stubborn 3$i 

In Which Elizabeth Repents Very Much 
AT Her Leisure .... 



In Which Elizabeth Changes Her Mind 

In Which Mrs. Emerson Comes Home 
AND John Howland Visits His Safe 

In Which Amory and Elizabeth Go Out 
in the Wmiteiving and the Dragon 
Vanishes Forever . . . . 



364 
376 

387 
402 



«* O traveller, who hast wandered far 
'Neath southern sun and northern star, 
Say where the fairest regions are ! 

" Friend, underneath whatever skies 
Love looks in love-returning eyes, 
There are the bowers of paradise." 

— Clinton Scollard. 



Journey's End 



CHAPTER I 

IN WHICH AMORY AND CAROLINE DISCUSS THE PAST, 
PRESENT^ AND FUTURE 

AT the bottom of her heart, Mrs. Jermain 
Chittick did not really expect her brother 
to remain long as her guest, and was pre- 
pared to hear at the close of the third evening that 
he was leaving in the morning for Freeport. She 
received the announcement with only a conven- 
tional expression of regret, but shortly followed 
him to his room. 

" Let me come in, Amory," she said as he opened 
the door in answer to her knock. " You don^t look 
sleepy and I want to talk. Go on with your pack- 
ing. Tell me why you want to go back to that for- 
saken place." 

"It's my home, Carol, and I don't consider it 
forsaken," replied her brother. Caroline, in her 
flame-colored evening dress, her dusky hair and 
white face thrown into relief by the dark velvet of 
the chair into which she had flung herself, was in 

11 



12 JOUKNEY'S END 

Amory's eyes far more attractive than wlien he bslvj 
her half an hour before, bent over a bridge table, a 
cigarette between her fingers. Now, she seemed 
more like the sister of his boyhood, who sometimes 
spent the long summers in the ancestral Russell 
home at Freeport. 

" Uncle Robert is dead," Caroline observed dis- 
passionately, " two years ago.'' 

" That is all the more reason why I should go to 
Aunt Eunice. I half feel that I did wrong not to 
come back from France as soon as I got my dis- 
charge after the armistice, but I had that oppor- 
tunity to work in Paris. Aunt Eunice wrote me to 
stay, and it was fine practice, but now I want to 
see Freeport again. Of course you feel differently, 
Carol. Grandmother Payne brought you up, but I 
wa» only four when I came to Journey's End. I 
don't know any other home nor any parents but 
Aunt Eunice and Uncle Robert." 

" It's queer," remarked Caroline, " how different 
our lives have been. I wonder if it was quite fair." 

" To which of us? " asked Amory. 

" Whether it was fair to separate us and put us 
in such different environments. There were you, 
brought up as a Friend in old Freeport, with all 
that implies, sent to Friends' School and to a 
Quaker college, and everything was exactly oppo- 
site with me." 



THE PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE 13 

" I don't see tliat we had any choice in the matter 
nor did those who were responsible for us. They 
only carried out directions. Father promised 
Mother that you should be taken to Grandmother 
Payne. And when he died so soon afterwards, it 
was perhaps equally natural that he should want 
me to stay with his people." 

" Poor Father ! " said Caroline. " Imagine him 
running away from college at twenty-one to marry 
Mother, and she was only seventeen! Crazy chil- 
dren that they were and yet they knew what love 
was. And now I am twenty-eight and have been 
married seven years. Of course you must go to 
see Aunt Eunice but why should you settle in Free- 
port? I know all about you, Amory; I know that 
you graduated from Johns Hopkins 'way up in your 
class, and that you did brilliant work in France. 
And now you are back you ought to start practising 
medicine in some place where your abilities will 
be appreciated. 

" If you go back to Freeport," Caroline went on, 
surveying him through half -closed lashes, " I can 
prophesy exactly what will happen to you. In ten 
days the holy calm of Journey's End will soak you 
through and through like an opiate. You will be 
bound hand and foot. You will be like the lotus- 
eaters Aunt Eunice used to read us about from 
the leather-covered Tennyson. You will settle 



14 JOURNEY'S END 

down and put out your shingle in Freeport and at- 
tend meeting on First Days and live in lethargy 
until the day of doom." 

Amory, sitting on the edge of the table, his hands 
in his pockets, merely smiled at this graphic pic- 
ture. 

" You will marry," Caroline continued, cocking 
her head at him, " a girl who parts her hair in the 
middle, a girl with big eyes and the disposition of 
an angel and the ambition of a cow. And the worst 
of it is that you will be contented, Amory." 

"What do you want me to do?" asked her 
brother, grinning in spite of himself. 

" You are too good for such a fate," pronounced 
Caroline. "You are too good-looking, Amory. 
You really have a manner ; even I perceive it. You 
are actually distinguished and that little air of 
courteous dignity suits your style to a T. You 
have beautiful gray eyes and a mouth like a Greek 
statue, and if you weren't my brother, I should fall 
upon your neck and insist on remaining there ! " 

Amory Russell received this remark in scornful 
silence. Caroline broke into a peal of laughter. 

" You blushed ! " she accused him. " I wanted to 
see if I could make you. Amory, you'd be a howl- 
ing success as a New York physician. You've the 
necessary looks, you've the manner, you've the 
money to start as you ought. In two years you'd 



THE PAST, PKESENT, AND FUTUKE 15 

be one of tlie fashionable ladies' doctors of the 
city." 

" That is the last thing I care to be," said Amory 
curtly. "A fashionable doctor and a fashionable 
minister can be classed alike as mighty poor stuff." 

Caroline grew serious. " But don't waste your- 
self on Freeport," she repeated. "It will be a 
waste, Amory. Settle in New York and let me in- 
troduce you. I can do a lot to get you started." 

" I must go to Freeport and see Aunt Eunice," 
said her brother decidedly. " What I do then will 
depend on circumstances. It isn't a question of 
the money I can make, Carol. As you say, I can 
afford to start where I choose. Net every doctor 
can do that. But if Aunt Eunice needs me, I owe 
it to her to consider that in making my plans." 

" I went down when Uncle Robert died," observed 
Caroline, still watching him critically. " It was 
the depth of winter, and everything was pretty 
ghastly. I thought it was my duty to go, especially 
since you were across and couldn't be there." 

"Come down with me to-morrow," proposed 
Amory. " Can't you chuck all this and spend the 
summer there? We'll get out the Whitewing and 
sail the harbor and picnic on Clam Island. We'll 
scare up some horses and ride the dunes and the 
beach as we used to do, with the wind in our hair 
and the spray in our faces." 



16 JOUKNEY'S END 

For a moment Caroline's eyes widened and the 
tired expression left them. 

" There was rather a peace about Journey's 
End," she said half to herself. " Somehow one 
wanted to be good and there were pleasant thoughts 
to think. I wonder how it would be now if I had 
been the one left in Freeport and you had gone to 
Philadelphia." 

" I can't imagine," said Amory frankly. 

" I can't see myself growing up in Journey's 
End," Caroline went on, the far-away look vanish- 
ing from her eyes. " Bad little black sheep that I 
was, I should have worried poor unworldly Aunt 
Eunice into an early grave. No, it was best as it 
was. At least, I haven't her death on my con- 
science." 

" Come home with me, Carol. You're looking 
rather seedy. Remember your little brother is an 
M. D. now. Your face tells tales." 

" Then I must have it enameled," said Caroline, 
rising briskly from her chair. " I'm perfectly well 
and I can't come with you, old chap ; it couldn't be 
managed. After all, perhaps New York isn't the 
place for you. You deserve a pretty good fate. I 
shan't see you before you go to-morrow, so give my 
love to dear Aunt Eunice and to old Lydia, and — 
yes, to the girl I might have been." 

Caroline kissed her brother, and for a moment 



THE PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE 11 

Amory lield her close. Carol was only two years 
older tlian he, and life, which, looked so promising 
to him, seemed to have done something rather cruel 
to her. There was her lovely home on the Hudson, 
— a childless home — where she and her handsome, 
heavy-featured husband lived side by side, the cur- 
rents of their lives scarcely touching. To Amory, 
fresh from experiences that were very real and ter- 
ribly tragic, Caroline's existence seemed pitifully 
frivolous and sadly out of tune. It was stamped 
with unrest and she, like all the world, seemed look- 
ing for something, but did she, more than any of the 
others, know what she sought? 



CHAPTER II 

IN WHICH AMORY MISSES A TRAIN AND VISITS THE 
D'BSTB PRINCESS 

DR. RUSSELL left Cornwall the next morn- 
ing, stopped in New York for some hours 
and finally missed his connections at 
Providence. Since there was no possible hope of 
getting through to Freeport that night, he checked 
his bag at the station and went out in search of a 
restaurant. 

The six o^clock high tide of automobiles and elec- 
tric cars was gradually receding and the wide ex- 
panse of Exchange Place was only ordinarily 
crowded as Amory surveyed it from the top of the 
viaduct. To a casual glance it looked as though 
one might possibly reach the corner of Dorrance 
Street without losing either life or limb. The dan- 
gers of Exchange Place were not unknown to 
Amory, for as a boy he had attended school in 
Providence. 

A sudden memory of that vanished time made 
him swerve as he crossed the little park before the 
station to look closely at the fountain ornamenting 

18 



AMOKY MISSES A TKAIN 19 

the slope. Through some momentary aberration of 
the sculptor, one of its figures possessed six toes, 
and Amory smiled involuntarily as lie saw that 
years had brought no correction of the bronze de- 
formity. 

Once across the square, he hesitated between two 
hotels and finally chose a small restaurant. Judg- 
ing from their appearance the few patrons were col- 
lege boys from the university on the hill, and a pale- 
faced cashier was the only woman in evidence. 

The sight of the boys revived in Amory a recollec- 
tion of his own school days, and when he had com- 
pleted his meal and paid his check he sauntered 
into the warm twilight of the long June evening, 
directing his steps toward College Hill, that steep- 
est of paths toward the shrine of education. The 
university at its head was not his own Alma Mater, 
but he was sufficiently familiar with its campus and 
buildings to be interested in seeing them again. 

For an instant he stopped to look at the clock- 
tower dominating the campus. Day after day, 
hundreds of boys hurrying from one recitation to 
another, glanced at its face, carelessly, thought- 
lessly, quite unconscious that they were absorbing 
as a part of their future lives its memorial message : 
Love is Strong as Death. But in time to come, 
that truth would recur to many as a golden gleam 
through the years. 



20 JOURNEY'S END 

In the vicinity of the college the East Side had 
not changed very much, though some new buildings 
had been erected and more of the neighboring 
houses now seemed devoted to Greek-letter societies. 
The narrow streets, with their curiously pious 
names, Benefit, Benevolent, Hope, were yet bor- 
dered by prosperous, well-kept homes, but the cable- 
cars of Amory's day no longer plunged headlong 
down the cliff -like street leading to the lower level 
of the town. All car-lines appeared to have van- 
ished from that section of the city, and it was not 
until he caught sight of an electric tram disappear- 
ing into a yawning gulf that Amory recalled the 
existence of a tunnel below the hill. 

There were people in Providence who would give 
him a warm welcome should he present himself at 
their hospitable doors, for the old city of Roger 
Williams still harbored a considerable number of 
the Society of Friends. And to be a Russell of 
Freeport, Massachusetts, was open sesame to the 
household of any Friend. 

Amory did not feel inclined to ring the bell of 
any of the mansions which would have greeted him 
warmly. He craved no human companionship, but 
rather was contented to revive memories long dor- 
mant, suggested by the streets and sights about 
Mm. 

The Friends' School, now flourishing under an- 



AMOKY MISSES A TKAIN 21 

other name, had enlarged its equipment and bound- 
aries since Amory's day. School was over for the 
year and the buildings looked dark and unoccupied 
as he wandered through the grounds, looking for 
familiar landmarks. He found the big tree where 
he and his chum, Putnam Avery, used to conceal 
themselves among the foliage to read lurid and 
light literature looked upon askance by those in 
authority. He saw, too, the windows of the room 
he and Put shared for three years. Putnam was 
sleeping under the poppies of France now, un- 
spared by his Quaker blood. 

Darkness was falling over the city when Amory 
completed his stroll and returned to lower levels. 
On the way down the hill he passed a building bril- 
liantly lighted and with huge bill-boards announc- 
ing a Venetian carnival for the benefit of the Red 
Cross. Amory looked at his watch. Only a quar- 
ter to nine and his train did not leave until ten. 
Following a sudden impulse, which at the time he 
could not explain and afterwards could not account 
for, he went up the steps of the hall, paid his admis- 
sion fee and entered. 

Inside, the carnival was at its height in a really 
charming setting of Venetian scenes and palaces, 
where strayed velvet-robed doges and stately dames 
who looked as though they might have stepped 
straight from the pictures of Titian and Veronese. 



22 JOUKNEY'S END 

Only a small portion of the assembly was in cos- 
tume, but the little leavened the whole. Amory 
bought some candy from a small boy in a blue 
doublet and white silk hose ; a rose from a girl who 
might have danced out of Botticelli's Spring^ had 
that astute painter averted his eye for a second. 

On either side of the hall stood booths for the 
sale of those extraordinary and nameless articles 
which appear like sporadic growths in the wake of 
every church bazaar and charity entertainment. 
To avoid them Dr. Eussell steered a straight course 
down the middle of the room. His natural cour- 
tesy made it difficult to refuse any request from a 
lady, and to-night it was obviously impossible, a 
bird of passage as he was, to load himself with in- 
convenient purchases. 

At the extreme end, he paused by a little plat- 
form to take a general view of the scenery and the 
company, a view which he found not without inter- 
est, while wholly unconscious that he himself was 
an object of interest to others. Caroline was right 
in telling him that he was " distinguished " ; to a 
marked degree he possessed that subtle character- 
istic which is a quality neither wholly physical nor 
entirely mental. In Amory's case, it was empha- 
sized by the poise and calm acquired from his 
Quaker home and training, and by a certain spir- 
itual expression, which passing years had increased 



AMOKY MISSES A TKAIN 23 

rather than lessened. He looked unusual and re- 
ceived more than a few lingering glances. 

Close at hand stood a black-covered booth, its 
sable hangings adorned with silver stars and cres- 
cents and bearing above its curtained entrance the 
inscription : 

''Have Your Palm Read by the Famous Venetian 
Soothsayer, Beatrice, the Last of the D'Estes.'* 

Dr. Russell's attention was attracted by a couple 
who emerged laughing from this booth, by a girl 
who came out looking startled and awestruck and 
by an old lady who passed him saying to her com- 
panion, "My dear, she told me things nobody 
knows but myself ! " 

Obeying another abrupt impulse, he lifted the 
curtain and entered the booth, to find himself pre- 
ceded by a boy and girl both about twenty. 

The girl was slender, dark, and dressed in a 
frock of a peculiar shade of blue, cut to leave bare 
her throat and arms. The black evening coat of 
her companion accentuated the high lights of her 
gown. 

The interior of the cabinet, also draped in black, 
was unrelieved by silver ornaments. Under the 
single drop-light stood a small table, holding a red 
velvet cushion. Behind the table sat a figure in 



24 JOUKNEY'S END 

costume and head-dress to resemble the famous 
painting of the D'Este princess. 

Upon the cushion the girl laid a pair of athletic- 
looking hands, and the palmist was tracing one line 
after another with a little ivory rod. No one spoke, 
and only the hum of the crowd outside penetrated 
the booth. 

" You have had a happy life," said the palmist at 
length. "Friends, health, prosperity, have all 
come your way. You are intelligent and up to this 
time have been fortunate, though you have permit- 
ted opportunity more than once to knock unheeded 
at your door. You are fond of books and of flowers, 
and of venturesome sports ; your intentions are usu- 
ally good and you are at present living a life that 
will not satisfy you for long, — does not really sat- 
isfy you now. You have qualities which your pres- 
ent surroundings do not encourage. You have 
naturally an affectionate, loyal disposition ; you are 
a good friend and a pugnacious enemy. You are 
quick to anger, but you are as often angry at your- 
self as at others, and you are very generous. You 
will not easily love a man enough to marry him; 
you prefer to have a good time as a girl, but if you 
chance to meet the man who is capable of awaken- 
ing your higher nature, you have great possibilities 
of development." 

" But am I going to meet him? " asked the girl, 



AMORY MISSES A TEAIN 25 

half laughing. Her voice, as Amory noticed, was 
clear and low. 

" I am no prophetess," said the palmist. " I see 
only what is written. You will marry somebody in 
the end, but whether the right person, I cannot say. 
And ' when Love comes to call thee, arise and follow 
fast.' " 

The palmist spoke the last sentence in a tone that 
seemed absorbed. Suddenly she looked up at the 
girl's face, looked quickly and searchingly. To 
Amory in the shadow, listening half in amusement, 
the expression of her eyes was distinct, but the girl 
and her escort remained unaware of the glance. 
Their eyes were intent on the ivory rod. 

" You will have a trying road to travel," con- 
tinued the soothsayer after a moment, and in an 
ordinary tone. "You are courageous by nature 
and you will need courage, for I cannot interpret 
the sign-posts of that path." 

" For goodness' sake, do be more explicit," said 
the girl. 

" That I cannot be, simply because the disaster 
which seems to threaten you, while real, is veiled. 
There is one influence in your life, and that a strong 
one, which is in your favor. I believe that it comes 
from a woman. But in a short time you will have 
a rocky path to travel, and I can only warn you to 
take each step with care." 

48 



26 JOUKNEY'S END 

There was a note of finality in ker voice as she 
turned to the boy upon whose palms she read only 
an ordinary prosperous future. 

" No rocky road to Dublin for me, Eve," he said, 
as they rose to leave, and for the first time became 
aware of Amory in the shadowy background. The 
girl scarcely glanced at him, thinking he had just 
entered ; the boy, with quicker intuition or less self- 
absorption, suspected that he had overheard and 
gave him an impertinent stare. 

As the curtain dropped behind them, Amory, see- 
ing that it was expected, took one of the vacated 
chairs and laid his hands, palm upward, on the 
cushion. 

As before, there was a pause while the ivory rod 
traced several lines. 

"Your hands are those which heal," said the 
palmist thoughtfully, " gentle hands which help the 
pain of the world; strong, too, in that they are 
gentle." 

Amory smiled inwardly. Could any trace of 
iodoform linger about him? Hardly possible, since 
he was but four days off the Cunard liner and had 
not been near a hospital for two weeks. The slen- 
der rod continued its slow movement. 

"^When the toiler in brain and the healer of 
pain shall be classed with the men who pray,'" 
murmured the palmist in an abstracted manner. 



AMORY MISSES A TRAIN 27 

Suddenly the little rod stopped short, its pointed 
end pricking Amory's palm. The D'Este princess 
looked hini straight in the face. " Did you know 
that girl who just went out?" she demanded 
abruptly. 

" I never saw her before. I am a stranger 
here. I doubt if I should recognize her again. 
Why?" 

" This is the strangest thing that has happened 
yet," said the palmist, laying down her pointer and 
propping her chin in both liands. 

" Why did I ask whether you knew her? Because 
the lines of your hand indicate that in the imme- 
diate future your life will be involved in the iden- 
tical disaster that threatens hers." 

"But that, you know, is nonsense," said Amory 
very gently. 

"Nothing is nonsense," sighed the palmist. 
" Everything has a meaning, if we have intelligence 
enough to read it. And half the time we are need- 
lessly deaf and blind to things that are clamoring 
to be understood." 

" But you don't really believe this yourself, do 
you? " asked Amory in the same persuasive man- 
ner. 

" I don't know what I believe nor whether I be- 
lieve anything. Every time I am persuaded into 
doing this, I regret yielding. I seem to possess 



28 JOUENEY'S END 

some queer gift, perhaps a mere trick of receiving 
impressions from other minds, perhaps a real 
power. All I can tell you is that I do not con- 
sciously deceive people and that I am startled again 
and again by the fulfilment of what I have read in 
their hands." 

" Can you tell me the nature of this threatened 
danger? " inquired Amory after a moment during 
which the palmist seemed wrapped in thought. 

" That is just the trouble," she replied, picking 
up the little rod again. '^ I see the disaster, which 
may or may not be averted, but I can tell you no 
more than I could tell that girl. I can only give a 
very trite piece of advice; think twice, yes, three 
times, before you take any important step in life, 
and ask advice, not only of your heart, but of your 
intellect as well." 

As the palmist spoke, the curtain of the booth 
was again lifted to admit a group of merry young 
people. 

" Shall I finish? " she went on. " I can tell you 
your faults and your virtues, if you care to have 
them catalogued." 

" With the first I am unfortunately only too well 
acquainted, and the second do not flourish in lime- 
light. I thank you." 

Amory laid a bill upon the cushion and left the 
booth. Once again in the hall, he wandered in and 



AMORY MISSES A TRAIN 29 

out among the crowd, looking for the girl in blue, 
but without result. He went away just in time to 
catch his train, still trying to fix in his mind a pic- 
ture of her face. He had seen it only indistinctly, 
in half light, and though he retained a general im- 
pression of dark hair and shadowy eyes, all details 
eluded him. 



CHAPTER III 

IN WHICH AMORY ARRIVES IN FREEPORT 

AMORY had sent no word to Freeport of his 
intended arrival, for he very well knew that 
any hour he might choose to appear would 
find him welcome. At two the next day, he was 
traversing the wide, elm-shaded main street of the 
little town by the sea, the sole passenger in a ram- 
shackle taxi which awaited the arrival of the train 
at the sleepy station. There, no one had known 
him, for the station-master was new and the hour 
not one at which many people were abroad. 

Reaching Journey's End, he dismissed the cheer- 
ful, slangy youth who guided the eccentric ca- 
reer of the broken-down Ford, and opened the gate 
upon the brick walk leading straight to the front 
entrance. Built in the days of the sea-trading Rus- 
sells, the house was a fine example of colonial archi- 
tecture, with a pillared porch ornamented by a 
beautiful fan-light window, the panes of which 
gleamed faintly purple. Beds of old-fashioned 
flowers bordered the walk. 

30 



AMORY AERIYES IN FREEPORT 31 

Amory carried a latch-key. He had always kept 
it on his ring during every absence from home, and 
sometimes in the years just past he had singled it 
from the rest of the bunch to look at it for a mo- 
ment. No matter how far he might wander, that 
bit of metal stood for home and all that home meant 
to him. The screen-door yielded to his touch, and 
with keen pleasure and anticipation he opened the 
finely-paneled door and entered the wide hall. 

It stretched straight to the garden door at the 
back of the house, and that stood open, giving 
glimpses of blossoming shrubs, more beds of flow- 
ers, and at the foot of the lawn, the blue waters of 
the harbor. In that one brief pause, Amory saw a 
white-sailed yacht slipping across the space within 
his view. 

More than once, in the dark watches of some 
night, on duty in a hospital ward, Amory had an- 
ticipated that moment and seen in his mind's eye, 
that peaceful, sunny scene. Now it seemed scarcely 
real. The house was absolutely still. After all, 
the only noise it ever knew was what he and Caro- 
line made. 

Where was Aunt Eunice? She might be sitting 
on the bricked terrace ujwn which the garden-door 
opened, and Amory walked softly down the long 
hall, only to find the terrace deserted. He looked 
into the east parlor and the west sitting-room, 



82 JOUKNEY'S END 

with a growing sense of welcome as eacli room, un- 
changed in its calm order, greeted his eyes. 

^'Amory Eussell, is it really thyself? " exclaimed 
a voice behind him, and Lydia came down the beau- 
tiful curving staircase. 

" Keally myself, Lydia," laughed Amory, seizing 
the old servant in both strong arms. "And thee 
has come just in time to stop my stealing thy 
cookies." 

" Fie, Amory," said Lydia, kissing him affection- 
ately. " Is thee the same mischievous boy as ever? 
Ah, but thee has grown in stature and in manliness, 
No, thee is not the same Amory." 

" Just the same for the people who love me," said 
Amory with another hug. "Where is my Aunt 
Eunice?" 

" Eunice Russell sleeps," said Lydia, smoothing 
her hair rufled by his embrace. " Thee had better 
not waken her. Since Robert died, she has been 
frail and has need of more rest and of withdrawal 
from the tumult of the world. She will not sleep 
much longer. Has thee had any luncheon? " 

"No, Lydia. I should have been here an hour 
ago, but the train was late." 

" Go up to thy room, then, Amory, and tidy thy- 
self. Thee will find all in readiness for thy home- 
coming. A dozen times a day Eunice Russell hath 
overlooked that room, lest something for thy com- 



AMOKY AEKIYES IN FEEEPOET 33 

fort be omitted. By the time thee has washed from 
thee the dust of thy journey I will have luncheon 
prepared." 

Lydia disappeared into the kitchen, and Amory, 
with a smile, turned to the stairs. The years were 
dropping from him like autumn leaves before the 
wind ; he was only a boy again, sent up to wash his 
hands and tidy himself for supper. 

The old grandfather clock stood on the landing 
of the curving stair, the silver moon on its face 
telling absolute falsehoods about the real moon's 
movements, but with its slow, solemn tick empha- 
sizing the stillness of the great house. How many 
thousand times it had ticked since Amory last 
climbed those stairs ! 

From mere force of habit he stopped to look at 
the picture hanging beside the clock, a picture that 
had always held his fascinated attention. It was 
only an old painting of a full-rigged ship, all sails 
set and a fair wind blowing, a small ship, with a 
high free-board and a line of square ports set in a 
belt of white paint. Below ran the legend : " Ship 
Iris, Amory Eussell, Master, leaving Shanghai for 
Freeport, July 10, 1801." More than a century 
after the ship Iris started on that voyage, the fourth 
Amory Eussell spent long moments in contempla- 
tion of her painted image. 

Amory's large room lay at the back of Journey's 



34 JOUKNEY'S END 

End, overlooking tlie garden and a harbor full of 
dancing white-caps on this day of stiff west breeze. 
Its four windows all framed beautiful views, but it 
was to the room itself that Amory turned after his 
first glance at the sea. Yes, it was unchanged. 
The same fine India matting covered the floor, the 
same India drugget concealed the sjmt where he 
had upset the ink. What a lecture Lydia had read 
him upon his carelessness ! 

Spotless muslin draperies framed each tall win- 
dow, their ruffles quivering in the soft air that 
drifted in. The four-posted mahogany bed was an 
expanse of snowy white, the big mahogany dresser 
and bureau still bore treasures dear to his boyhood, 
his desk had been freshly stocked with paper and 
blotters, the bookcase was as he had left it, crammed 
with favorite volumes. His glass-fronted case of 
curiosities was as before; the wide fireplace wore 
its summer dress of feathery asparagus, jeweled by 
bright red berries. The door into the dressing- 
room stood ajar and here a wealth of towels and 
soap surrounded the marble bath and basin, real 
marble this, no imitation porcelain. 

His tennis racquet, his college photographs were 
all in place, his fencing foils and mask, — nothing, 
nothing was changed ! Only, upon a white-draped 
table by the bed stood a big bowl of roses and beside 
them lay a Bible. 



AMOKY ARRIVES IN FREEPORT 35 

As compared with other young men, Amory's life 
had been blameless. A certain innate fastidious- 
ness kept him from being tempted by the grosser 
forms of indulgence, yet he was not ignorant of 
evil. The peace of that house, of that room, fell 
upon him like a cleansing, healing bath. Over his 
desk hung a framed motto, which Amory knew by 
heart, though he had not thought of it for years. 
Long ago. Aunt Eunice placed it there, and he 
stopped to read it afresh. 

'* *If the weak and the foolish bind thee, 
I cannot unlock thy chain ; 
If sin and the senses blind thee, 
Thyself must endure the pain. 
If the arrows of conscience find thee, 
Thou must conquer thy peace again.' " 

That had been the key-note of his whole boyhood, 
of his whole training, — ^the absolute, utter responsi- 
bility of the individual for himself. It was the core 
of the Quaker belief, that all are equal in the sight 
of God, and none can mediate nor interpret for an- 
other. To each his own searchings of the soul, his 
own communion with the Spirit, his ovm quest for 
the Inner Light. And in such belief and such prac- 
tice do men grow in grace. 

Since Charles Russell had " married out of meet- 
ing," his children were not Friends by birth. Caro- 



36 JOURNEY'S END 

line, indeed, had been brought up by her grand- 
mother as an Episcopalian, but Amory, though he 
had never made profession of his Quaker faith, 
did believe strongly in this principle of personal 
responsibility. Self-reliance and self-control had 
been trained into him by Robert and Eunice Russell. 
He had grown up at Journey's End in an atmos- 
phere of serene calm, in an order that seemed 
changeless, in a home that never knew an angry or 
an uplifted voice. Compassed about by such gra- 
cious peace, he had not been without experiences of 
it himself. 

Having finished this survey of his room, Amory 
took a bath and changed his clothing completely. 
Nothing short of absolute bodily cleanliness fitted 
a return to Journey's End, and with a smile of 
amusement, he picked up the wet towels and re- 
stored order to the bathroom. More than once 
Lydia had sent him up to perform this duty, and he 
was not at all sure she would not do it again. No, 
in this house, he was surely not Dr. Russell, who 
had to his credit two years of successful work and 
before him a future which his superior officers 
seemed to consider brilliant, — he was only Amory, 
who was to wash his hands and make himself tidy. 

He found the table laid on the brick terrace 
where the sunlight fell through pergola vines. 
Lydia waited on him with affectionate solicitude, 



AMORY AERIYES IN FREEPORT 3T 

enjoying the little old familiar jokes and allusions, 
and also Ms unaffected appetite for her delicious 
home cooking. Just as he finished the clock struck 
three. 

" If thee wishes, Amory," suggested Lydia, *' thee 
may go up-stairs and sit by Eunice Russell until 
she wakes. To open her eyes upon thy face will be 
for her a joyful moment." 

The door into the big front chamber moved noise- 
lessly as Amory entered. Side by side stood the 
twin mahogany beds with their carved posts and 
netted testers. Across the foot of the farther one 
was drawn a bamboo couch, and there Amory found 
his aunt, wrapped yet in quiet slumber. Very 
softly he drew a low stool to her side and seated 
himself, looking earnestly into the peaceful face of 
the sleeper. 

Eunice Russell had never worn the white cap of 
the older Friends ; her soft waving hair was merely 
parted and drawn back on either side of a face, 
which, naturally pleasing in contour, had gained 
ineffable charm from the beauty of Eunice's inner 
life. 

The tears came to Amory's eyes as he realized 
that the years had left their traces upon even that 
serene countenance. The soft hair had whitened, 
and there was about the whole slight figure an air 
of fragility which went to Amory's heart and some- 



38 JOUKNEY'S END 

what alarmed him as a physician. His Aunt Eunice 
was very dear to Amory. 

Still she did not wake, and he sat in silence, his 
mind busy with many memories. For the first time 
there came home to him a full realization of what it 
had been to her to lose her husband, and an appre- 
ciation of the loss to him personally. He was on 
the ocean when Uncle Robert died, and the news did 
not reach him for many weeks. He had loved his 
uncle, but at the time, the shock was dulled for 
him by the strenuous work in which he was en- 
gulfed. He literally had no time for grief. 

Aunt Eunice's orderly big room, too, was un- 
changed ; unaltered its fine old furniture and beau- 
tiful proportions. The wing-chair yet stood by the 
side window, where a well-worn Bible lay upon the 
white-draped table. Through half-closed inner 
shutters subdued light fell, and sweet odors crept 
from the climbing honeysuckle over the front 
porch. Somehow it seemed as though Uncle Rob- 
ert must shortly enter. 

He had been a tall man, though never heavy, with 
a finely-shaped head, thick white hair, and a benev- 
olent face, a man whose word was as good as a 
written agreement, whose kindly heart never judged 
severely his fellow-beings. Yet he was a man who 
dealt sternly with himself and who could not brook 
dishonesty in others. 



AMOEY AERIYES IN FREEPORT 39 

Through. Amory's mind flitted recollections of 
the stories Uncle Robert used to tell hini. Jour- 
ney's End was full of curiosities, beautiful rare 
things from India and China, trophies of many a 
past sea voyage, by many a vanished Russell. 
Every one had a story, and as a child, Amory never 
tired of hearing about them. It was a regular part 
of every winter evening, when his lessons were 
learned, that he should choose some new object of 
which to hear the story. His mind had been a won- 
derful jumble of old Cathay and pirate ships, of 
temples and heathen people in distant lands. There 
was only one ornament in the house of which Uncle 
Robert never told him the story, and that was the 
carved ivory dragon occupying the mantel of the 
east parlor. For some reason his uncle was per- 
sistently silent concerning that dragon, and after 
one or two attempts to learn where it came from, 
Amory had taken the hint and permitted it to re- 
main in oblivion. 

Robert Russell had loved his brilliant, wayward 
younger brother with an affection that had in it 
something of the paternal. Charles's wildest esca- 
pades never really exhausted the patience of the 
grave, dignified Robert, and it was inevitable that 
he should love Charles's son. Having lost two chil- 
dren in early infancy, both he and Eunice looked 
upon Amory as compensation for early sorrow. 



40 JOUKNEY'S END 

And as Amory grew older, there sprang up between 
him and his Uncle Eobert an affectionate compre- 
hension that worked for true companionship, a mu- 
tual understanding that wrought good on both 
sides. Amory had never openly disobeyed his Uncle 
Eobert ; he was not a man whom a boy did disobey, 
but his obedience was not that of fear. His uncle 
thoroughly understood Amory, and, though firm, 
was invariably gentle. Amory grew to young man- 
hood trusting and respecting his uncle and taking 
very seriously any reproof from him. 

During his sophomore year at college he incurred 
one which he never forgot. Due to a series of 
thoughtless imprudences, he found himself involved 
in debt and in increasing difficulties. After consid- 
erable thought, he confessed his predicament in a 
letter to his uncle. 

That letter gave Robert Russell keen distress, for 
he had watched so anxiously for any tendencies of 
Charles to crop out in Charles's son, tried so con- 
scientiously to direct Amory in paths of prudence. 
He answered the letter in person, took one keen 
look at his nephew, and then, without a change in 
his usual kindly, grave manner, asked to see the 
bills. Having examined them, absolutely without 
comment, he drew his check-book from his pocket 
and made out a check for the exact amount in- 
volved 



AMOKY AREIYES IN FKEEPOKT 41 

" I should like thee to send me those receipted 
bills, Amory," he said quietly as he passed the 
check across the table, and then, seeing the mortifi- 
cation and shame written on the sensitive young 
face before him, he relented. " Perhaps thee does 
not deserve that, Amory," he added. " Thee may 
let thy own conscience judge thee. Send the re- 
ceipts or not, as it decrees. And if thee is truly 
penitent, thee will keep within thy allowance for 
the coming term." 

Amory had not exceeded the allotted sum, indeed, 
a very liberal amount, and he had disciplined him- 
self by sending the receipted bills to his uncle. 

He remembered, too, Uncle Eobert's great gen- 
erosity in financial matters. Every quarter, acting 
as trustee of his brother's estate, Robert sent to 
Mrs. Payne the proper dividends for Caroline's ex- 
penses and education, and at her marriage had ren- 
dered her share of her father's property, with ac- 
counts and vouchers accurate to a cent. 

But on Amory's twenty-first birthday, the family 
lawyer presented him with a statement of the 
moneys due him from his inheritance, a sum, to 
Amory's astonishment, greatly increased since his 
father's death by Robert's careful management, and 
without a single charge against it, neither for main- 
tenance, nor for clothing, — not even for education. 

" Thee has been my son, Amory, in everything 



42 JOUENEY'S END 

except actual paternity," was Eobert's sole com- 
ment to his surprised certainty of a mistake. " I 
trust thee will not begrudge me a father's privi- 
lege." 

Aunt Eunice was waking. The fine white ker- 
chief crossed upon her bosom rose and fell with less 
regularity, her lids lifted and for a second she lay 
staring in blank incredulity into Amory's eyes. 

^^Is it thee, Amory? " she gasped at last. 

Amory slid to his knees beside the couch, put 
both arms about the slight figure and laid his cheek 
against hers. Out on the stairs the tall clock 
ticked moment after moment into eternity while 
neither moved nor spoke. 



CHAPTER IV 

IN WHICH AMORY MEETS TWO GIRLS AND RESCUES A 
LADY FROM PERIL 

*'T SHOULD teU thee, Amory," said Mrs. Rus- 
I sell, as lier nephew bade her good-night, 
" that to-morrow, being First Day, Friends 
will meet here. What with the high price of coal 
and the lessening number at meeting and the emer- 
gencies of the war, we have not tried to heat the 
meeting-house for over two years. And now, 
though the weather would permit its use, the cus- 
tom continues that the few of us who are left should 
gather at Journey's End. Thee will understand 
that I would be wiser not to break my custom of 
remaining in my room until the hour for meeting? 
I am unpleasantly reminded in these days that I 
cannot endure so much fatigue as in the past." 

"And I have talked to thee all the afternoon and 
evening of such distracting and exciting things. 
Aunt Eunice," said Amory, as they stood under the 
shaded light in the upper hall. "I have jerked 
thee from one end of Paris to the other, and told 
thee a hundred different tales that may distress 
thee. Why did thee not bid me hold my tongue? " 

43 



44 JOUKNEY'S END 

" Thee can tell me nothing that I do not care to 
hear and thee has not disturbed me in the least. 
The joy of thy arrival has added greatly to my 
peace. My rest will be untroubled and I trust that 
thine may be the same. Sleep as late as thee likes, 
Amory. Whenever thee is ready, Lydia will give 
thee breakfast. Friends will meet at half-past 
ten." 

She kissed him and went to her room, while 
Amory turned down-stairs and into the garden. 
He wanted to smoke, but didn't like to do so, even 
in his own room, until he knew that it would not 
distress his aunt. 

"Will thee fasten the garden door when thee 
comes in? " asked Lydia, on her way to bed. 

" I will," said Amory. "And thee need leave no 
light for me, Lydia. The moon is enough." 

Amory went out into the lovely old-fashioned 
garden, down to the sea-wall, at the base of which 
lay a shingly beach, now bared by the low tide. 
The lawn and garden of Journey's End covered an 
area as large as two ordinary lots, but deeper than 
wide. To the north, cut off by a ten-foot brick 
wall, another big colonial house stood in corre- 
sponding grounds. It had long been occupied by 
the Fiskes, but in Amory's boyhood only Admiral 
and Mrs. Fiske were left after the marriage of 
their children, to make what use they could of the 



AMOKY MEETS TWO GIRLS 45 

tremendous old place. The house looked open, for 
several windows showed lights and the sound of 
lively music floated through the quiet air. 

" It seems to me Aunt Eunice wrote that the 
Fiske place was sold," thought Amory. " I must 
ask her about it in the morning." 

He finished his cigarette by the sea-wall and then 
realized that he was both tired and sleepy. Per- 
haps it would be better to go to bed. He wished 
that Caroline had come with him ; she looked any- 
thing but well or happy. Carol was right about 
Journey's End ; there was something about the old 
place different from others, something that envel- 
oped one in an atmosphere of its own. It was not 
wholly because it was home, for it had not been that 
to Caroline, and yet she had realized the difference. 

The snorting of a motor-car before the next house 
distracted the current of Amory's thoughts, gay 
young voices called back and forth for a moment, 
and then the car rolled away, while some one en- 
tered the Fiske house and banged the door. Amory 
went into Journey's End and up to his room. 

He slept as only one can sleep who comes back to 
the place in the world given him to love above all 
others, the place that is home to him, to the dear 
familiar things of life, the accustomed surround- 
ings of every-day existence. Yet it was not late 
when he rose, and only half -past nine when he had 



46 JOUENEY'S END 

breakfasted upon the terrace and again sauntered 
into the garden. 

"Will thee attend meeting, Amory?'' asked 
Lydia, coming to the garden door. 

"Certainly. Where will it be, — ^in the east 
parlor? " 

" The west sitting-room," said Lydia. 

" The other room is larger," observed Amory, 
drawing his cigarette case from his pocket and de- 
liberately watching for its effect upon Lydia. 

" That is true," Lydia agreed, " but since Kobert 
died, Eunice seldom uses the east parlor. She 
seems to have taken a dislike to it. I have noted 
that she never sits there for more than a few mo- 
ments at a time. Amory Russell, thee has too fine 
a mouth to disfigure with that cigarette ! " 

" How does thee know what it is? " asked Amory 
mischievously. 

"I am not ignorant of the evil customs of the 
world, though I have lived in Journey's End for 
forty years," replied Lydia with as much of a sniff 
as her principles permitted. "Well, if thee does 
nothing worse than smoke, I suppose both Jour- 
ney's End and I can endure and survive." 

" Tell me, Lydia," said Amory coaxingly, " will 
it shock Aunt Eunice? " 

" It will shock her much more to have thee con- 
ceal it from her. No, if thee must smoke, Amory, 



AMOKY MEETS TWO GIKLS 47 

do it openly. Eunice RusseD does not judge others 
harshly, least of all thyself. Times have changed, 
and those who are past all desire for change them- 
selves do not always yearn to cramp the younger 
lives about them. Thy happiness is Eunice's first 
earthly concern, and if a roll of tobacco and a 
match are essential to it, she will make allowances 
for thy weakness." 

Amory laughed outright. " Lydia, Lydia, I have 
known thee in past years to make allowances thy- 
self for my shortcomings, — indeed, to connive at 
concealing them. In the bottom of thy heart, thee 
is not only tolerating this cigarette, but enjoying 
its odor ! " 

" If thee is going into the garden, Amory, thee 
may as well make thyself useful by cutting some 
roses," said Lydia, grimly enough, but with a smile 
curving her lips as she turned to fetch him the 
basket and shears. 

"The garden does not look so well as Eunice 
wishes," she added. " John Duane still toils in it, 
but he needs direction, and Eunice has not felt 
strong to work as she used to do. And now it 
seems that every season brings a fresh pest in the 
form of a new bug or worm. We feel quite an 
affection for the old-fashioned tent-caterpillars." 

" Thee doesn't think Aunt Eunice is ill, does thee, 
Lydia? She is thin and fragile and I do not like 



48 JOUKNEY'S END 

Iter transparent look. Of course, slie has not re- 
covered from the shock of Uncle Eobert's death, but 
does thee think anything is wrong? " 

" Eunice Kussell is not ill,, but anxiety for thee has 
somewhat affected her strength, and there are times 
when it seems as though the unrest of the world has 
penetrated even the walls of Journey's End. It is 
diffi-cult to rise above the disorder and to keep a 
serene mind. Last week when I was cleaning the 
east parlor it seemed as though an evil spirit had 
entered into me. But I recalled that I had godly 
parents and a spiritual upbringing, and I concluded 
that it must be the weather." 

Amory smiled again as he strolled down the cen- 
tral brick walk. The roses were in their prime, 
and on either side bent inviting, fragrant heads for 
his choice. They were all old favorites. Jacque- 
minot, George Washington, Seven Sisters, cinna- 
mon, and tiny yellow single Scotch ones, with here 
and there a sweetbriar. 

With real enjoyment Amory made his selection 
and filled his basket and then wandered around, 
examining the flowers with care. The garden had 
been a great pleasure to both his uncle and aunt, 
and was still well-kept and trim. 

Down the length of the high wall dividing the 
grounds from those of the Fiske place ran a long, 
straight path, bordered by lilacs and other tall. 



AMOEY MEETS TWO GIKLS 49 

flowering shrubs. The lilacs were past now, but 
the Japanese cherries and crabs were in full beauty, 
and Amory, catching a glimpse of their pink blos- 
soms from the central walk, turned the corner for a 
nearer view. He was startled to come suddenly 
upon a girl. 

She stood looking at a rose-breasted grosbeak 
singing on the flowering thorn-tree. She was 
dressed in white and her head, crowned with heavy 
blue-black hair, was tilted upward, showing the 
long line of her slender young throat. In one hand 
she clasped a gardening instrument known to 
Amory's youth as a "clawer"; the other held a 
rose. 

At this unexpected apparition, Amory stepped 
back and at the same instant the girl looked at 
him. 

It was a curious look, steady and rather as 
though she were questioning him. Her eyes, as he 
saw at once, were suited to her hair, in color uncer- 
tain, but dusky with smouldering lights. 

"Don't step on those baby larks," she ordered 
imperiously. 

Amory turned on the flat heel of his canvas shoe, 
looking behind him, under the impression that he 
had inadvertently trod on a bird's nest. Nothing 
showed but some small green plants. 

" The baby what? " he asked, bewildered. 



60 JOUENEY'S END 

" The little larkspurs/' said the girl less impetu- 
ously. " They have just been transplanted/' 

" Oh," said Amory. " I thought they were 
weeds." 

"Weeds don't grow in rows," said his compan- 
ion, giving him another searching glance. "All 
these things down here are seedlings. These are 
pansies, and these are phlox and that is cosmos. 
That cosmos ought to be transplanted. Yes, and 
these are marigolds. That, by the way," she added 
with a wave of the clawer and with a charming im- 
pudence, " is a lilac." 

" Yes," said Amory. " I am acquainted with the 
lilacs. When I was a naughty little boy, my aunt 
used to send me to get a switch from one of 
them." 

The girl laughed, her face lighting up in the most 
engaging manner. "That dear Quaker saint?" 
she asked. " Yes, if she thought it was her duty, 
she would do it, no matter how she hated it." 

"Aunt Eunice never let her affection for me inter- 
fere with her sense of duty," agreed Amory, smil- 
ing. 

" She is the sweetest thing that walks this earth," 
said the girl thoughtfully. "Then you must be 
Dr. Eussell? " 

"Yes," said Amory courteously. "And I sup- 
pose I ought to know you, but in the years I have 



AMORY MEETS TWO GIRLS 51 

been away the Freeport girls have grown past rec- 
ognition.'' 

" No/' said his companion, " you have no reason 
to know me. I'm merely nurse-maid to this bed of 
seedlings. Good-morning," she added, and started 
to pass him on the walk. 

"Won't you let me share these roses?'' asked 
Amory, indicating the basket he had placed on the 
stone seat at the corner of the lilac path. It had 
once graced the garden of some old Italian villa. 
On either end sat straight a formal little lion. 

" Thank you," said the girl, hesitating slightly. 
" I will take three or four. No, I want only red 
ones. 

" That dear aunt of yours," she added as Amory 
dropped the pink flowers, "is an angel let loose 
from heaven. I wonder " 

"Wonder what?" asked Amory, selecting a 
handful of Jacks. He was entirely unaware of the 
sympathetic tone that had crept into his voice. 

" If you No, of course it is impossible. 

Nothing, Dr. Russell. Pardon my intrusion into 
the garden. I did not know you were at home." 

"It is no intrusion from a friend of Aunt Eu- 
nice," Amory began, but the girl had reached the 
sea-wall. On the top step she turned abruptly and 
an expression of absolute impishness lighted her 
dark face. She looked the very incarnation of mis- 



62 JOUKNEY'S END 

chief as slie stood with slender, boyish figure sil- 
houetted in white against the blue harbor. 

"When Aunt Eunice sees that cigarette," she 
remarked, indicating the one Amory still held in his 
fingers, "she may send you for another switch," 
and vanished with her words. 

Amory stared for a second and then, laughing 
heartily, approached the sea-wall. The beach be- 
low lay empty in either direction. 

" Where did she go? " he thought. " What a pic- 
ture she made ! And who can she be? There was 
surely something familiar about her face, and yet 
she said I did not know her. Could I have run 
across her in France? She might have been doing 
Red Cross work." 

Amory pondered this problem, oblivious of pass- 
ing time, till Lydia came to where he stood by the 
sun-dial. 

" It is after ten, Amory. Give me the roses that 
I may put them in place." 

As Amory entered the hall, Mrs. Russell was just 
coming down. Stopping on the last stair, she 
waited for him to come to her, and, placing a hand 
on either shoulder, kissed him twice. 

" I hope thee has rested well, Amory, and that 
home seems sweet to thee. Sarah and Henry Swain 
are this moment coming up the walk. Will thee 
stay with me here in the hall and greet the Friends 



AMORY MEETS TWO GIRLS 63 

as they come? Thee looks cool and comfortable," 
she added with a glance at the spotless flannels her 
nephew had thought appropriate to the summer 
day. 

For fifteen minutes Amory stood in the hall greet- 
ing one acquaintance after another, — Friends in 
orthodox Quaker costume, others in ordinary dress, 
their heritage indicated by serene faces and calm 
manners. The unaffected pleasure at seeing him 
again, the cordial hand-clasps, the gentle comments 
touched Amory rather deeply. " I am glad to see 
thee, Amory." " This is a joyful day for thy Aunt 
Eunice." " Thee does not know how thankful we 
are to see thee return in safety," — one after another 
came the words of welcome, as each passed into the 
sitting-room. 

" We will go in now, Amory," said his aunt when 
some twenty people had assembled. " No more may 
come and the clock is at the moment." 

Amory glanced into the room, saw that there was 
no division of men and women, as was the case in 
the meeting-house, and looked for the opportunity 
to sit beside his aunt. But as he followed her he 
saw that there would be no chance for this. Eunice 
Russell seated herself by Hannah Ames. The only 
seats now unoccupied were beyond the big fire- 
place which jutted into the room so far as to form 
deep recesses on either side, where long French 



64 JOUKNEY'S END 

windows opened upon the terrace. Amory crossed 
to a low tapestry-covered sofa, its back against 
the side of this recess. Nearest sat Sarah 
Swain at the corner of the fireplace, but since she 
faced the room, Amory was almost directly behind 
her. 

Deep silence fell upon the group. They sat in 
relaxed attitudes, some with eyes closed, the rest 
with gaze bent on the floor. Amory, too, though 
his seat commanded an entrancing view of the gar- 
den, folded his arms and directed his gaze to the 
Persian rug at his feet. 

Five minutes passed and the silence that seemed 
almost tangible was broken by a slight rustle, a 
sound of subdued steps. Two slender feet clad in 
white canvas shoes passed across the rug under 
Amory's eyes, a white dress swept by and some 
one took the only vacant chair in the room, directly 
opposite Amory's sofa and only four feet away. 

The appearance of those shoes surprised Amory 
for a moment, though he well knew the daughters, 
and more especially the granddaughters of the 
Quaker homes of Freeport, to be far from orthodox 
in dress. But the saucy white shoes fitted trim feet 
and strikingly resembled those worn by the girl 
lately encountered in the garden. He deliberately 
raised his eyes. 

No, this was not the young person wko had 



AMORY MEETS TWO GIKLS 66 

ordered him off the baby larks, and yet there was 
something familiar in this face, too, with its brown 
hair under a shady hat, around which twisted a 
blue scarf. 

"What ails me?" Amory asked himself. "I 
seem to know every girl I meet. Is it just because 
it is so pleasant to see American girls again? " 

His opposite neighbor glanced at him in her turn 
and for a second Amory looked into a pair of placid 
blue eyes, very unlike the dark, stormy ones of the 
garden visitor, but it was only for a second, and 
both were again looking at the rug. 

Outside, the clock on the stairs ticked rhyth- 
mically, steadily, and inside the west sitting-room 
absolute silence reigned, broken only by an occa- 
sional sigh, or the soft shifting of some one's foot. 
The very atmosphere was filled with prayer so in- 
tense and concentrated that one almost heard the 
beating of angel wings. Would the Spirit move 
any one to speak? 

Eleven long slow strokes from the grandfather 
clock and the silence yet unbroken. A sudden 
movement of the white shoes opposite caught 
Amory's attention and he glanced up. This time 
the blue eyes met his squarely and there was in 
them a look of combined amusement and consterna- 
tion. The girl made a slight gesture. 

Following its direction, Amory turned his head 



56 JOUKNEY'S END 

and into his own eyes flashed the laughter that 
never lay far below the surface of his sunny nature. 
There sat Sarah Swain, hands clasped in her lap, 
head reverently bent, and upon the edge of Sarah 
Swain's demure Quaker bonnet, just where its stiff 
edge revealed her neck, promenaded a two-inch 
caterpillar. Even as Amory looked, it rose on its 
reai^ legs, waving its head from side to side, directly 
over Sarah's unprotected skin! 

For one second Amory experienced a sinful de- 
sire to stay his hand, to permit that caterpillar to 
continue its career unchecked; even speculated as 
to the result on Sarah Swain and upon the as- 
sembled meeting. Had he been sixteen instead of 
twenty-six, it is to be feared he would have allowed 
events to take their course. 

With a single motion he swept that caterpillar 
from its silken path, so deftly that unsuspicious 
Sarah Swain never moved her devout head. Very 
quietly he rose to his feet, took three steps to the 
long window and threw the insect outside. Then, 
dusting his hands with his handkerchief, Amory 
sat down, but not without another glance at his 
neighbor. The blue eyes were bent demurely on 
the rug. !No one else in the room moved or seemed 
to notice. 

Again the clock ticked its slow story while Amory 
endeavored to recapture the mood that had been 



AMORY MEETS TWO GIRLS 57 

his before the interruption. This time he sat look- 
ing into the garden. 

There was a slight stir. Sarah Swain with gr^at 
deliberation untied her bonnet and handed it to 
Hannah Ames. Then she rose, her head in its cap 
of transparent muslin reverently bowed. 

At first her words came falteringly, a prayer full 
of poetical phrases and allusions, words famiLar 
from much searching of the Scriptures and long 
hours of inward meditation. Her sweet, quavering 
old voice fell softly on the ears of her silent listen- 
ers, pet'haps on none more pleasantly than those of 
the young man behind her. And when she spoke 
of him, not by name, but as the son of the house 
returned in safety from a far country, Amory^s 
eyes came back from the garden to the rug. 

Another period of silence followed Sarah's 
prayer. Then Henry Swain turned to Hannah 
Ames and offered her his hand. First Day meeting 
was at an end. 

In the little stir and hum of conversation that 
followed, Amory rose and looked at the girl oppo- 
site. Her eyes met his with a friendly smile. 

" You do not remember me, Amory Russell? " she 
asked, extending her hand. " Have you forgotten 
one winter day long ago, when some children were 
sliding on Long Pond and you took a little girl on 
your sled, and then steered into a big frozen snow- 



58 JOUENEY'S END 

ball and smaslied tlie sled and spilled the riders to 
either end of the pond? " 

"Why, it is Phebe Ames!" exclaimed Amory, 
grasping the outstretched hand. " Indeed, I have 
not forgotten that disaster. We arose with bleed- 
ing noses and bumped heads and not at all pleased 
with each other." 

" We were not," Phebe agreed laughingly. " It 
is no wonder you did not know me, Amory, for I 
have not often visited Grandmother when you were 
at home. I came from Providence only yesterday 
to stay with her for a time and I have already 
shocked her by being tardy for meeting." 

" Phebe, how does thee do? " asked Eunice Kus- 
sell, coming up with an affectionate greeting. 
" Thee has spoken with Amory? I was not sure 
you would recall each other. And is thee in Free- 
port for the summer? " 

" For as long as Grandmother can tolerate me," 
said the smiling Phebe. " She wanted me to come 
earlier, but I was delayed because I promised to 
help with a Venetian entertainment our church was 
giving. Just as soon as it was over, I came flying 
to Freeport. Please pardon me, Mrs. Russell, for 
being late this morning." 

Amory gave the girl a keen look. She came from 
Providence; she had been at the carnival. Allow- 
ing for evening dress and for the very subdued 



AMOKY MEETS TWO GIRLS 59 

lights of the booth, — ^yes, this must be the same girl. 
Yet her companion had called her Eve. Well, Eve 
and Phebe were not dissimilar in sound; his ears 
might have betrayed him. 

"And that caterpillar," said Phebe, turning 
again to Amory as Mrs. Russell's attention was 
claimed by Mary Barton. " It is wrong of me, but 
I was so tempted not to attract your attention and 
to see what would happen if we let it alone." 

"You were not alone in temptation," replied 
Amory. 



CHAPTER V 

IN WHICH AMORY HEARS A STORY AND MAKES AN 
IMPORTANT DECISION 

'- A ND now tell me of Caroline," said Mrs. 

/-\ Russell after tea on First Day, as slie 
seated herself on tlie brick terrace to 
watch the shadows lengthen through the garden 
and over the harbor. *^I am so glad thee could 
have that little visit with her. I have not seen Caro- 
line since Robert died. She came to me then, and 
was sweet and daughterly, but I did not feel at 
ease concerning her. She appeared sad, or per- 
haps not exactly sad, but not at peace with her- 
self." 

" She was thin and looked tired," replied Amory, 
who was leaning against one of the pillars of the 
stately x)orch. " She was also deep in engagements 
of various kinds." 

" Her life seems to me ill-planned. She is young 
and I believe that the young should be joyous, but 
Caroline is old enough to have found out where 
true happiness lies. I wish I felt that Jermain is 

60 




AMORY HEARS A STORY 

tlie man who will develop her character to it' 
est possibilities." 

Amory, looking into the garden, smiled to 
self, partly at his knowledge of Carol's environ 
ment, partly at his aunt's sweet unworldliness. In 
his experience, the present generation concerned 
itself very little with the development of character ! 

" Caroline has lived in such different surround- 
ings," went on his aunt, "that she and I do n(\t 
look at things from the same view-point. And it 
is a constant struggle for any of us to keep the 
small things of life small and the large things large. 
Whenever Caroline came to Journey's End, I tried 
to do my duty by her, but I have taken myself to 
task that I did not love her as I loved thee. 

"I have sometimes thought," she continued, 
"that Caroline yet resents a chastisement that I 
once administered during her childhood. I admit 
that it was given in haste and even in anger. I 
found her heaping coals from the fire upon a rug 
in the east parlor, because she had read a fairy- 
tale of a wizard who, in that manner, constructed 
a magic camel out of a hearth-rug. I was so horri- 
fied at what she had done ; at the danger to herself ; 
and over how easily she might have destroyed the 
house, that I took Caroline to my room and spanked 
her with my ivory-backed hair-brush. Does thee 
think she can still resent it? " 




JOUENEY'S END 

3ry turned a laughing face to his auntw 

Proline spoke most lovingly of thee, Aunt 
Eunice. Kesent it? — I am sure she does not." 

" At the time, I accused myself with being more 
concf rned over the damage to a valuable rug and 
with the peril in which she had placed her own 
life as well as Journey^s End, than with the per- 
nicious effects upon her mind of the tale she had 
read. I experienced severe qualms of con- 
science." 

Amory sat down upon the terrace steps and laid 
his head on his aunt's knee, his eyes brimming with 
laughter. 

"And has thee experienced no qualms for the 
times thee chastised me? " 

" Thee needn't try to tease me, Amory. Thee 
knows there is no bitterness in thy heart concern- 
ing any discipline thee received at my hands. Thee 
was never punished except when thee richly de- 
served it and never in haste and never in anger. 
But I spanked Caroline without stopping for re- 
flection and without considering her home-training 
and her nature. It is true that when I confessed 
my error to Robert, he remarked that he wished I 
had done it before and he hoped I would do it again. 
And I recall that during the rest of her visit that 
summer, Caroline was more mannerly and more 
obedient than usual. Amory, thee is deranging my 



AMORY HEARS A STORY 63 

kerchief. Thee reminds me of the way Elizabeth 
flies at me with a sudden kiss." 

"Who is Elizabeth, and what right has she to 
hug my Aunt Eunice? " demanded Amory. 

" Elizabeth Emerson, who lives next door. When 
Admiral Fiske died, the place was purchased by 
John Emerson of New York. Elizabeth is one of 
his daughters. There are two older girls, Dorothy 
and Marion, and then comes Elizabeth, who is 
twenty-two, and William, who is fourteen. I have 
merely met the parents and the older girls, but in 
one way and another, I have seen a good deal of 
Elizabeth, who interests me greatly. She has been 
away on a visit and I do not think she can yet be 
at home or she would surely be running in. She 
often helps me with my flowers and comes and goes 
as she likes in the garden." 

" How does she look? " asked Amory. " This 
morning when I was cutting roses, I encountered 
a young girl in the lilac walk, and for a moment 
she made me feel as though I were the stranger, 
not she." 

" It must have been Elizabeth. I did not know 
she had returned. She is tall and slender, and very 
quick in her motions. Her hair is black, with curi- 
ous bluish shadows, and she has dark eyes and a 
smooth brown skin." 

" Then it was Elizabeth all right enough. Ske 



64 JOUENEY'S END 

ordered me not to step on some seedlings, and wlien 
I asked her name would not tell it, and when I of- 
fered her roses, chose red ones. She informed 
me that my dear Aunt Eunice was an angel 
astray from heaven, and when she took leave of 
me, her face wore a positively heathenish expres- 
sion/' 

"That is Elizabeth," sighed his aunt. "The 
child has many moods and some of them are 
strange. Elizabeth runs over to show me her dainty 
frocks and pretty slippers, and I enjoy seeing them 
and hearing of her parties and good times. And 
yet she often uses most peculiar language and 
her manner lacks the distinctive repose which char- 
acterizes a lady. The present generation of young 
girls astonishes me, and yet I cannot help loving 
their grace and youth. I have grown fond of Eliza- 
beth, though I do not wholly approve of her. She 
is sweet at heart and has in her the making of a 
noble woman, but her home environment and her 
companions are not what I could wish for a girl 
of such temperament. I try to be tolerant toward 
this changing world but there are times when I find 
it difficult to reconcile my conscience to the effort 
necessary. Let me tell thee of an experience which 
I had with Elizabeth and see whether thee thinks 
me illiberal in my dealings with her. 

" She came to me one day," Mrs. Russell went 



AMOEY HEAKS A STOEY 65 

on, ^^ straiglit from a motor-ride and dance, and it 
was borne in upon me that I owed a duty to Eliza- 
beth. Her dress was composed of a scant three 
yards of material, — ^there could not have been more. 
It was immodest and even its color was not respect- 
able. Laugh if thee likes, — I do not mind, but it 
will do thee no harm to hear this tale of Eliza- 
beth. 

" She had in her ears pendants two inches long, 
and her face was both powdered and painted. Her 
hat — ^her hat, Amory, was sinful. It was a wicked 
little hat. All this was bad enough, but when she 
kissed me, as she did at once, her lips were sullied 
with tobacco." 

Amory, his face buried in his aunt's lap, tried to 
keep his shoulders from shaking. 

" It came to me that I must do my duty by Eliza- 
beth. I told her to take off that hat, and she did so 
and threw it from the terrace. I told her to sit 
down and to turn her face from me, for I would 
not look upon it. She obeyed. Then I spoke the 
words that were given me to utter. I told her that 
her dress was worse than she could know ; I told her 
that it was improper both in cut and color, and that 
it would make any well-brought-up youth, like my 
Amory, believe her what she was not. I told her 
what I thought of her hat and of her stockings, and 
that her ears were too dainty to disfigure with those 



66 JOUKNEY'S END 

great pendants. Elizabeth tore them off and threw 
them after the hat.'' 

" Elizabeth has certainly known her moments 
with the lilac switches/' murmured Amory, lifting 
a laughing face from its refuge. 

" What did thee say, dear? I did not understand 
thy allusion? '' 

" Thee would not, Aunt Eunice. Go on with thy 
story. I find it interesting." 

" I told Elizabeth that I would as soon see paint 
upon the Kesurrection lilies as on her face, and 
that the lips of a young girl should be pure. Then 
I was silent, for I had said what was given me to 
speak. Elizabeth was silent, too, for a time, and 
then she rose, still without a word, and went down 
the steps. She took her ear-rings and the bad little 
hat. From it fell a pin, which, when I picked it 
up later, was no better than it should be. And she 
went out of the garden without speaking and with- 
out looking back. I was sorry, for I knew from 
the droop of her head that she was going to have 
an unpleasant time if she listened to her con- 
science. '^ 

" Don't stop,'' begged Amory, as his aunt relapsed 
into silence. " I know there is more to come." 

" There is. I was grieved, too, for I cared for 
Elizabeth and feared that she might never return, 
and yet I could not find it in my heart to regret one 



AMORY HEARS A STORY 67 

word I had spoken. I had her much in my devo- 
tions that night and much in my meditation the 
next day. 

" I did not see her for twenty-four hours, but in 
the evening when I sat here as I usually do, to 
watch the sunset colors over the harbor and to 
think of my boy, I saw Elizabeth coming from the 
beach and through the garden as she usually 
chooses to come. And even at a distance, I knew 
that Elizabeth had held communion with her better 
self. She wore a corn-colored frock that was both 
charming and modest; she had arranged her hair 
in a maidenly fashion, and she had washed the 
paint and powder from her face and discarded her 
barbaric jewels. She came to me like a penitent 
child, and put her head in my lap as thee is doing, 
Amory. And presently she told me that she was 
not going to paint her face any more and that she 
had done with cigarettes." 

" And what became of the bad little hat? '' asked 
Amory, his voice full of laughter. 

" I saw that hat but once again and then at 
headquarters where I was helping pack clothing 
for the French relief. I did not understand why 
Elizabeth chose to send it there, and when I asked, 
she said that it might be too rapid for Free- 
port, but she did not think it could corrupt 
Paris." 



68 JOUKNEY'S END 

" Aunt Eunice, thee is too sweet for words ! '' 
laughed Amory. " And I suspect thee of a diplo- 
matic ruse. Is thee not using the naughty Eliza- 
beth as a figurative rod for me? " 

" That is not in my thought, Amory. When I 
embraced thee this morning I knew thee had been 
smoking, but it did not distress nor concern me. 
Thee is a man and can judge for thyself. Thee is a 
physician and knows whether it will harm thee. 
And thee need not retire to the garden unless thee 
chooses. I can trust thee not to smoke in any room 
where it will be displeasing either to Lydia or to 
me. I would not place a barrier in any path thy 
conscience permits thee to follow. I try to be lib- 
eral and to make full allowance for changing times 
and for younger people, but try as I may, I can 
never willingly tolerate a cigarette in a girPs 
mouth. 

" But I have had searchings of heart concerning 
my own bonnet," she went on. "While I have 
never worn the orthodox Quaker dress, I have pre- 
ferred plain garb and a close bonnet with a white 
quilling about my face. Time was when a Freeport 
milliner would put in a fresh quilling for seventy- 
five cents, but the price increased, for it is no easy 
task to arrange that quilling with success. 

"Finally the Freeport milliner died and when 
the bonnets needed fresh quilling they had to be 



AMORr HEARS A STORY 69 

sent to Boston. There was no one liere who knew 
how to do it. And what with the express each way 
and the careful packing required, and the increase 
in price of materials and the f ussiness of the work, 
it now costs five dollars each time that quilling is 
renewed. And I do like to be dainty. Thee is 
laughing again, Amory, and now at my bonnet! 
But I am seriously considering whether a more 
worldly form of head-gear may not in my case prove 
less worldly in the end." 

"Oh, no. Aunt Eunice," Amory protested quickly. 
" Keep thy little bonnet that I love. No matter if 
it costs ten dollars instead of five and needs fresh 
silk each week. Don't change it." 

" Then I will not, Amory ; but, dear, thee is al- 
most as lax in thy language as my impetuous Eliza- 
beth, and she did not have thy early training. Thee 
may love a person and feel affection for an animal, 
but thee merely likes an article of dress." 

'' That little bonnet I love and I love the lady in 
it," persisted Amory, smiling at the reproof. Dur- 
ing the short time he had been at Journey's End he 
had very carefully edited his vocabulary. 

" As thee likes, dear, but it is not correct English. 
It pleases me that thee addresses me with the speech 
of thy boyhood. I feared that after so long a so- 
journ among strangers, it would not return readily 
to thy lips." 



70 JOUKNEY'S END 

" The plain language is natural to me in Journey's 
End, Aunt Eunice, and I shall always use it with 
thee. And now tell me, thee did not keep the motor 
car after Uncle Robert died? " 

" I did not. John Howland, who has helped me 
with many knotty legal points — I could never have 
wrestled with my income taxes but for him — ad- 
vised me to sell the car. He said thee would be ab- 
sent long and that when thee did return, thee would 
prefer a later model. I should use it too seldom to 
pay for keeping it and a chauffeur often idle. When 
I have wished a car, it has been easy to telephone 
to Benjamin Holden's garage. Young Benjamin 
comes with a comfortable closed machine and al- 
ways drives me himself. And Elizabeth is ever 
coaxing me into her car. She drives carefully and 
never exceeds the speed I best enjoy, though she did 
once tell me that her friends fainted in rows to see 
her pass at so slow a pace." 

" Bully for Elizabeth ! " said Amory. " I recall 
now that thee has spoken of her by name in thy 
letters, and of her friendship with thee, but she 
had never seemed a real person to me. Thee must 
tell her not to keep out of the garden merely be- 
cause I am here. It is big enough for us both with- 
out danger of our getting in each other's way. And 
to-morrow, I will see about ordering a car. I think 
a coup^ will be best. Thee can have as much or as 



AMOKY HEARS A STORY 71 

little air as thee likes, and it will hold three or four 
people comfortably if necessary." 

" I shall like that, and a small car of that type 
will perhaps be equally convenient for thee if thee 
decides to go into practice in Freeport. Caroline 
wrote me that she thought New York would offer 
thy best opportunity. Greatly as I should enjoy 
having thee here, Amory, I have lived without thee 
for long periods at a time, and thee must not let thy 
consideration for me keep thee from a more desir- 
able opening. It is much to have an ocean no longer 
between us. Were thee in New York, thee could 
come to me quickly in case of need." 

" It is hard to know what is best to do, Aunt 
Eunice. There are reasons why I^d like to stay 
in Freeport, but before I fully decide I want to 
run down to Johns Hopkins and talk with some of 
the staff. If I should conclude to practise here, 
how about my office? Does thee know of any suite 
in a business block? " 

"Why should thee not have it in Journey's 
End? " asked his aunt, and the wistful note in her 
voice did not escape Amory's observant ear. 
" Here are twenty-one rooms." 

"Would it not trouble thee to have strangers 
coming and going, and some unavoidable con- 
fusion? " 

" Nothing needful for thy work could be an an- 



72 JOUKNEY'S END 

noyance. I had thought thee might take the east 
front room for thy patients. The room behind 
could be thy office, with yet the little den behind 
that — thy uncle's special sitting-room. That would 
give thee a suite of three apartments, and should 
thee need more, I have no liking for the east parlor. 
Thee may use that also." 

" Whew ! " whistled Amory. " Three rooms is as 
much as even the top sawbones of the profession 
really needs. I wasn't expecting to start with more 
than two." 

" Thee may have four if thee wishes. And thee 
knows there is already a stationary wash-stand in 
thy uncle's study. Any other plumbing could be 
easily installed." 

" Thee is very thoughtful, Aunt Eunice, and very 
generous," began her nephew. 

" I may have taken thought for thee, but do not 
call me generous. Journey's End is thy home, 
Amory ; it is at thy disposal. It will be thine when 
T join Eobert." 

" But there will be other difficulties," said Amory 
after a time. " A doctor in the house involves con- 
stant attention to the telephone and door-bell, — 
that is, if he is the successful chap I hope to be." 

"Thee will be successful; it is written in thy 
face. And there is a real opening for a physician 
in Freeport. In my quiet way I have made in- 



AMORY HEAES A STORY 73 

quiries and in a town of eight thousand, there are 
but two really reputable practitioners. There is 
plenty of work for another. And in summer, thee 
knows, Freeport becomes quite a resort and its pop- 
ulation nearly doubles. Extra servants will be 
needed. I have already an excellent negro woman 
who comes to assist Lydia except on First Day, 
for Lydia is no longer young and the house is large. 
I had thought of engaging a maid for thy spec^ial 
service, to answer bells and to take messages and to 
be generally useful to thee. She would need to be 
a superior person, for such duties demand intelli- 
gence, but if a sufficient wage is offered, she could 
be found. Or perhaps thee would prefer a nurse 
as thy assistant. I recall that when I visited Br. 
Camp in Boston, he had a trim young woman in 
uniform who was most helpful to me in rearranging 
my dress. '^ 

" And what took thee to a doctor's office? " de- 
manded her nephew immediately. " Thee wrote 
me nothing of that." 

" There ! my unlucky tongue has run away with 
me," sighed Mrs. Russell. " I was speaking of the 
courteous young woman s — " 

" Hang the courteous young woman ! Aunt 
Eunice, about what did thee consult Dr. Camp? 
Come ! I have a right to know." 

" Thee has the right and I intended thee to know, 



74 JOURNEY'S EKD 

only not just yet. I did not want to hamper thy 
plans in any way nor to make thee feel — dear, I 
seem to be blundering more than ever ! Do not be 
disturbed, Amory, and do not loosen thy embrace. 
I want to be very close to thee. 

" It is only this foolish heart of mine," she added 
after a moment. " There is something wrong with 
its valves. Last Eleventh month I went to Dr. 
Camp and again this past Fifth month. The 
trouble has not increased during that time, and 
with rest and care it may grow no worse." 

" Why didnH thee tell me? " asked Amory after 
a long pause. " Why didn't thee? " 

" Because I knew thee would come home at once 
and that thy work was important. Moreover thee 
was coming anyway this month. The danger is 
not immediate, dear boy. I have not told Lydia; 
I feared her anxiety would react upon me. No one 
in Freeport knows except John Howland. Him I 
told, for I wished to set my affairs in order. John 
has been most kind to me, Amory. He ascertained 
that Dr. Camp was considered the best heart spe- 
cialist in Boston ; he went first and arranged an ap- 
I)ointment for me, and on both my visits insisted 
upon personally escorting me. He has shown me 
thoughtful attention and we have disagreed but on 
one iK)int, — ^he wished to send thee word. I was 
obliged to ask his promise that he would not do so 



AMOEY HEAKS A STOKY 75 

without my permission. And now thee is here, and 
I am no worse, and my judgment is justified." 

" Except that I might have been with thee these 
six months past," said Amory, after a struggle to 
control his voice. "To-morrow, will thee let me 
examine thy heart? " 

" Indeed thee may. I shall feel honored to be 
Dr. Eusseirs first Freeport patient. Come, dear 
Amory, let us dry our eyes and smile again. Dr. 
Camp says I have a good chance to live to a green 
old age, and it is my dearest hope to see thee bring 
a bride to Journey's End and to hold thy child in 
my arms. And for the success of thy career, thee 
should marry. Though a physician is bound by his 
professional vow to practise his art and to live his 
life in righteousness, most men prefer their wives 
to consult a married practitioner. In all these 
months, has no girl found favor in thy sight? " 

"There are no girls so sweet as thee. Aunt 
Eunice," said Amory, choking. " Thee has spoiled 
me. I compare every girl for whom I feel a momen- 
tary attraction with the little Quaker lady of my 
love, and the little Quaker lady stays." 

" I pray that thee may find her soon, and then 
thee must bid my image step aside. And when thee 
does speak words of love to a girl, I think thee will 
say them convincingly. I only ask that she be pure 
in heart, no matter how flippant her exterior. Pu- 



76 JOURNEY'S END 

rity of heart is compatible with considerable oufc 
ward naughtiness, as I have found in the case of my 
wilful Elizabeth. And now, dear, forgive my 
clumsy blundering, which has saddened thy first 
day at home. Thee must not let it influence thy 
plans. Since thee is going to Baltimore, I would 
advise thee to go before the weather becomes 
yet more sultry. A sleeping-car is intolerable in 
midsummer." 

" I am not going to Baltimore. To-morrow, 
Aunt Eunice, after I have satisfied myself about 
thy heart, we will go through the east wing together 
and plan the changes needed to adapt it to an ofQ.ce. 
And then we will telephone the carpenter and the 
plumber and the sign-painter that Dr. Russell will 
start his medical career in Freeport." 



CHAPTER VI 

IN WHICH AMORY VISITS JOHN HOWLAND 

**T JUST met Amory Eussell on the street and 
I a stunning chap he is. Looks the exact image 
of his father, except for a dignity more like 
his Uncle Robert." 

" Has he arrived? " asked John Howland, taking 
off his glasses and looking at his partner. " I knew 
from Mrs. Russell that he was expected. Came 
straight from France? " 

" Said he spent three days with Caroline," ex- 
plained Richard Vickery, glancing over the letters 
he held in his hand. " There'll be some heartaches 
among the girls this summer, if I am any judge. 
Amory has all his father's personal beauty, to say 
nothing of other attractions. Robert and Charles 
shared their father's fortune equally ; Robert's chil- 
dren both died. Amory will eventually be his 
aunt's heir, and you and I know that his grand- 
father's property has about doubled since old 
Amory's day. It will be interesting to see what 
happens now Robert is gone and there's nobody to 
hold down the brakes." 

77 



78 JOURNEY^S END 

"Amory was a nice boy," observed John How- 
land, " rather a charming boy, too." 

" So was Charles. He could charm the heart out 
of a woman just by looking at her. Charles was 
about the most attractive young fellow of our gene- 
ration, and what a mess he did make of things ! A 
runaway marriage, dissipation under the name of 
art in Paris, both he and his wife dead in their 
twenties, and the Robert Russells with their son to 
bring up." 

" Which was the best thing that could possibly 
have happened to young Amory. I saw a good deal 
of him when he was growing up, — he and my Tom 
were friends, you know, — and I always liked Amory. 
To my mind, he has shoAvn far more character al- 
ready than that unfortunate Charles. Here he was 
with all the money he could use, and yet he plugged 
away at college, and he did good work in 
France. I met one of the head surgeons of the Red 
Cross down at Ogunquit the other day. We got to 
talking and somehow it came out that one of our 
Freeport boys had been in his unit. He spoke very 
highly of Amory. I don't believe he'll make ducks 
and drakes of the Russell money. After all, he had 
a good bringing-up, and Robert Russell put a lot 
of himself into that boy. Amory loves his Aunt 
Eunice; she will have considerable influence over 
him.'' 



AMORY VISITS JOHN ROWLAND 79 

'*' It isn't possible for a fellow to be as good-look- 
ing as Amory and not have some imperfection," 
commented Mr. Vickery. "We'll see. Now Fm 
off for Boston if I can make that train." 

" Just tell Miss Morton not to interrupt me un- 
less it is important," said his companion. 

John Howland, senior member of the legal firm 
of Howland and Vickery, did not turn at once to 
his work, but sat looking abstractedly from the 
window. He was a man over fifty, with iron-gray 
hair, and clean-cut features. His father had been 
the trusted adviser of three generations of Russells, 
and John, growing up in the ofi8.ce, stepped into the 
shoes left vacant at his father's death. 

"Well" — ^he remarked to himself, "well, — I 
wonder, — I wonder." 

With this enigmatic observation he turned his 
attention to the papers on his desk. 

In the outer office, Miss Morton was presently 
accosted by a young gentleman she had never seen 
before, whose appearance gave her a distinct palpi- 
tation. 

"May I see Mr. Howland?" inquired the vis- 
itor. 

" Mr. Howland is very busy. He left word that 
he wasn't to be interrupted. Could I take any mes- 
sage to give him later? " 

"But I think he will see me," said the young 



80 JOUKNEY'S END 

man pleasantly. " I seem to be without a card. 
Would you mind asking if he can give Amory Eus- 
sell a few minutes? " 

"Oh," said Miss Morton, who had heard that 
name before. " Yes, I'll ask." 

Amory looked around the rather barren outer 
oflice, not much changed since the days of Henry 
Howland. There stood the same uncomfortable 
chairs, the same maps hung on the walls, the same 
dusty law-books filled the cases. 

"Mr. Howland will see you," announced Miss 
Morton, but following on the heels of his stenog- 
rapher came the lawyer himself. 

"Well, well, Amory, it is good to have you 
home!" he said cordially and inwardly added: 
" Jove ! if he isn't young Charles again, except for a 
different expression." " Come in, come in," he 
added aloud. " I'd stop any work to bid you wel- 
come." 

Still clasping the hand of his visitor and patting 
his shoulder, he drew him into the inner office, clos- 
ing the door upon the astonished Miss Morton, who 
was not accustomed to see her staid employer dis- 
play any feeling. , 

But Amory understood. "Mr. Howland," he 
said at once and with a simple directness that was 
very engaging, " I— I can't begin to tell you how 
badly I feel about Tom." 



AMORY VISITS JOHN HOWLAND 81 

Mr. Howland pressed the hand he still held. 
"We appreciated your writing, Amory," he said 
gruffly. " Tom did his duty and none of us can do 
more. I rather envy the young fellows who were 
permitted to give their all. Sometimes I don^t know 
but it takes more courage to live than to die. Sit 
down, my boy, sit down.'' 

" Thank you," said Amory, laying aside his hat 
and taking from his pocket a manila envelope. " I 
have something for you, Mr. Howland." 

Placing it on the desk, he watched for a second 
while the lawyer opened it and then he walked over 
to the window. There was a long silence and 
then Mr. Howland blew his nose. 

" This means a great deal, Amory," he said. " It 
is not every one who would have thought of such a 
kindness." 

" I tried my best to get photographs of the graves 
of all our Freeport boys," said Amory, returning 
to the desk and seating himself. " There were eight, 
you know. I obtained them for all but one, a Peter 
Flynn. I never knew him myself, but when Aunt 
Eunice sent me his name, I did my best to locate 
him, but I couldn't. His jF?eemed to be one of the 
cases where the poor chap was wiped out in a 
second." 

Mr. Howland again held out his hand. "How 
about your hospital experience?" he asked when 



82 JOURNEY'S END 

they had exchanged a warm grasp. " You had a 
good long pull at it, didn't you? " 

" Over a year of actual service, and of course for 
long after the armistice we were still patching up 
the poor fellows." 

" It was a remarkable coincidence, your running 
across Putnam Avery." 

" It was the hardest thing that happened to me," 
replied Amory simply, " and yet afterwards, I waB 
thankful it did happen." 

"Are you willing to tell me about it?" asked 
the lawyer, "or are you like the rest of the 
boys, — don't want to talk about your experiences in 
the war? " 

" Like the others, there are a lot of things I just 
want to forget," said Amory, " that is, so far as one 
can forget. The war did something terrible to most 
of us, something words can't express, but I can 
talk about Putnam. My encountering him was a 
mere chance. We had been handling cases as fast 
as we could for twelve hours. I was just off duty 
and making for my tent to snatch some sleep, when 
one of the nurses asked me to look at a poor fellow, 
who she said was in the ambulance corps, a non- 
combatant of course, but wearing the Red Cross, 
and so a favorite target. I stepped aside to see if 
I could help him and it was Put." 

Mr. Howland looked at him sympathetically. 



AMOEY VISITS JOHN ROWLAND 83 

" That must liave been a shock,'' he observed at 
length. 

" Except that when a man works day and night 
patching up the work of hell, he finally reaches the 
point where he can't feel much more. I didn't go 
to my tent and I went without the sleep for which 
I had started. The dear old chap knew me ; he was 
conscious to the last. He was past all help, but 
fortunately he didn't suffer ; I was able to prevent 
that. We talked of Freeport and of the harbor and 
our boat, and he gave me some messages for his 
father and mother. Of course I wrote, but I have 
yet to see them and to bring them some things that 
belonged to Put. Just at dawn he died in my arms." 

" That was a great comfort to the Averys," said 
the lawyer, breaking the silence that followed. 

" After a time, it was to me," said Amory. 

" I have wondered how you young fellows with 
your Quaker training feel now about the war. Of 
course you had been brought up to think it wrong." 

" Put and I were both in non-combatant service. 
I can tell you how I felt, Mr. Howland. After three 
months in the field hospital, I came to the conclusion 
that Friends are right in the principle that war is 
wrong, but personally, I can no longer stick to that 
principle when it is a question of warfare with 
devils." 

" Right you are," said the lawyer briefly. 



84 JOUKNEY'S END 

" And Jack? " asked Amory. " What is lie do 
ing?" 

"I sent him back to finish at college and the 
dickens of a time he has been giving me. It seems 
as though he got just enough of the war to be 
utterly unsettled for any steady work." 

" That's the case with half the men," commented 
Amory. " It is a nervous reaction. I felt it more 
or less myself during the first weeks I stayed on as 
interne at St. Etienne's. Mr. Howland, what about 
my Aunt Eunice? " 

" What has she told you, Amory? " 

" She has told me about her heart and of her 
visits to the specialist. I wish that you had written 
me immediately. I ought to have been told." 

" Your Aunt Eunice made me promise not to tell 
you. It isn't possible to evade a promise to her. I 
argued as best I could, for I was anxious about her 
and I thought you should know. It was useless, 
for she had made up her mind and was adamant. 
I must confess I have been worried these six 
months past, for it put me in a difficult position. 
If anything happened to her, you would find it hard 
to forgive me. I was greatly relieved when her 
second visit showed matters no worse." 

" She told me you had been extremely kind. I 
appreciate very much what you have done for her." 

" There isn't a man in Freeport who would not do 



AMOKY VISITS JOHE^ HOWLAND 85 

anytliiiig in his power for Robert RusselFs widow. 
We feel honored by the doing/' said John Howland 
rather curtly. 

" I ought to have been here," said Amory. " I 
would have come at once if I had known, but 
though she wrote me twice each week, she never said 
one word to let me even suspect she was not well. 
Of course, when Uncle Robert died, I could not 
come, but I got my discharge the April after the 
armistice. I need not have stayed for the hospital 
practice, only it was such a whacking opportunity 
to do work in constructive surgery." 

" Since you did not know, I can't see that you 
have any reason to blame yourself," said Mr. How- 
land. " It was a mighty fine chance for a young 
doctor and must have set you ahead a good bit, 
given you a start in experience. Are you planning 
to specialize? " 

" :^^ot yet. I shall not think of that until I have 
had several years of general work." 

" It's curious," said John Howland. " Mrs. Rus- 
sell spoke of this the last time I was with her, and 
now I see you, Amory, I am reminded of it. It is 
odd how the deft fingers .of your father, — for he 
was a clever painter, only he couldn't stick to any- 
thing long enough to succeed, — ^have cropped out in 
you with another sort of dexterity. Charles Russell 
had great ability, but he lacked any incentive to cul- 



86 JOUKNEY'S END 

tivate it. It interests me that you have studied 
medicine." 

" Well, I wanted to do something, and this inter- 
ested me. And I think a man who isn't obliged to 
scratch gravel for his own living ought to do some- 
thing with his life that will help others. Uncle 
Robert thought so, too." 

Amory saw, without understanding, the curious 
expression that crossed the lawyer's face. 

" I want to consult you," he went on. " Aunt 
Eunice and I have had an argument, and I finally 
agreed to her desire that I should ask your opinion. 
But I may as well tell you that I have fully made 
up my mind and that your opinion won't influence 
me unless it chances to coincide with my 
own." 

" Then if it doesn't, I may as well keep silent," 
said the lawyer dryly. " I believe I can venture a 
guess as to the subject of that argument, — where 
you are to begin your professional work? " 

"Yes," said Amory, looking a little surprised. 
" I had a bunch of mail this morning, letters that 
have been following me around for a fortnight, and 
among them is one from Colonel Fenwick, the com- 
manding officer of the unit I served with. He 
makes me a tip-top offer to come into his New York 
office for a year, with big prospects later. I was 
amazed, for I never thought the old bird liked me. 



AMORY VISITS JOHN HOWLAND 87 

He seldom opened Ms mouth except to give me a 
dressing-down. 

" The same mail brought a letter from another 
man I met in Paris, who is head of that big new 
hospital in Chicago. He offers me a chance on his 
staff." 

"Pretty flattering offers, Amory," said John 
Howland, smiling, but still with the same odd ex- 
pression, rather as though he were deliberately try- 
ing to keep his face blank. " It would be hard to 
decide between the two. Which does Mrs. Russell 
favor? " 

" I haven't shown her either letter," said Amory, 
" I don't intend to do so. That isn't the point. I 
think I ought to stay in Freeport, and Aunt Eunice, 
though she wants me to do so, is afraid it isn't the 
best thing for me professionally. If she knew of 
these letters, she would be more convinced than 
ever." 

"You are Tom's age, aren't you?" asked the 
lawyer after a pause. 

" Just twenty-six, sir." 

" Well, what are you going to do? " 

" Stay in Freeport as long as Aunt Eunice needs 
me." 

There was a silence while Mr. Howland thought- 
fully fingered the bronze paper-weight on his desk. 
His face had lost its peculiar look and wore an 



88 JOUKNEY'S END 

expression that was indicative of satisfaction. 
When lie did turn to Amory, it was with a smile. 

" I used to like you as a boy, Amory," he said 
quietly. " I think I'm going to find you worth while 
as a man." 

A corresponding smile came into Amory's eyes. 
" I am glad you think I am right," he said boyishly. 

'' I think you can very well afford a few years of 
your life for the happiness of your Aunt Eunice. 
And in the long run, I don't believe a man ever loses 
by doing his duty. Aside from that, it is my honest 
and unprejudiced opinion that Freeport is not an 
unfavorable ground for you." 

'' I think that also," said Amory. " Then I may 
tell Aunt Eunice that you approve my decision? " 

"You may. And when do you put out your 
shingle? " 

" Not immediately. Fd really like a little vaca- 
tion. And of course, I shall have to see the State 
Board and obtain permission to practise." 

^^ Necessary formalities, to be sure. Well, I think 
you deserve time to play. Still heart-whole, 
Amory? Better for a doctor to marry." 

" So Aunt Eunice says," laughed Amory. 

" Freeport will show you some pretty girls. And 
now for a bit of business. Mrs. Kussell and I be- 
tween us have looked after your affairs and I have 
used my best judgment whenever a decision had to 



AMOKY VISITS JOHN HOWLAJ^D 89 

be made. But now you are back and going to stay 
in Freeport, you may want to take things into your 
own hands. If you do, TU render an exact account 
of my stewardship." 

" Pm not such a fool as to bid a trusted pilot step 
overboard, Mr. Howland. I want to understand 
my affairs rather better than I do at present, and I 
shall ask you to explain exactly how they stand, 
but I mean to leave everything in your hands as 
Uncle Robert did. I hope you don't object." 

" I shall endeavor to serve your interests as faith- 
fully as I did those of Robert," was the brief answer. 
" By the way, Amory, you have never seen your 
uncle's will? " 

" I know its purport, that everything was left to 
Aunt Eunice, which was as it should be, with the 
exception of a considerable sum which Uncle Robert 
set aside to accumulate for an unspecified purpose." 

John Howland rose and crossed to the safe at one 
side of his office. Opening an inner compartment, 
he selected a paper. 

" This is a copy of Robert's will," he said, hand- 
ing it to the young man. " Its wording may inter- 
est you." 

Amory unfolded the single sheet. It was dated 
five years earlier. After the usual preliminaries, it 
set apart a certain sum of money to be kept in trust 
for five years after the death of the testator, or un- 



90 JOUENEY'S END 

til the accumulated principal and interest should 
reach a specified amount. 

"The executors of this trust/' read the docu- 
ment, "shall be John W. Howland, Andrew J. 
Wheatland, and Henry C. Avery, all of the town of 
Freeport, Massachusetts. With the said John W. 
Howland, I have left complete instructions as to the 
final purport and execution of this trust, and I 
charge him and his fellow-executors to make its 
nature public to no man until the expiration of 
the time appointed, unless, before that date, the 
cumulation of the sum specified shall take 
place. 

" The rest of my estate, my house in Freeport, 
known as Journey's End, and all other real and 
personal property of which I may die possessed, I 
leave to my wife, Eunice Mary Russell, to be hers 
absolutely. 

" The omission of my brother Charles's children, 
Caroline Russell Chittick, and Amory Russell, is 
intentional, because I consider both to be already 
in receipt of incomes sufficient for any reasonable 
needs, and because I have every confidence in my 
wife's discretion and judgment. But to my nephew, 
Amory, who has been to me as a son, I leave my 
blessing and my undying love. 

" I appoint as the executors of this will, my wife, 
Eunice Mary Russell, and my trusted friend and 



AMORY VISITS JOHN HOAVLAND 91 

adviser, John W. Howland, both to serve without 
bond." 

John Howland busied himself about his desk 
while Aniory read the document, but he was quite 
aware of the sudden moisture that filled the eyes 
of his visitor when they reached a certain sentence. 

" Then even my Aunt Eunice does not know the 
purpose of the trust here created? " Amory asked 
after a time. 

"No. It cannot be known for some time yet, 
though I am inclined to think it will be before the 
expiration of the full five years. Take that with 
you, Amory; you are entitled to a copy." 

" Uncle Robert so enjoyed helping others," ob- 
served Amory, folding the paper. " I am sure his 
purpose is to do something for Freeport. Thank 
you, Mr. Howland. I've taken an unpardonable 
amount of your time." 

" No more than I chose to give you. Come in 
later on and I'll have your accounts and invest- 
ments arranged for you to see. And come up to 
the house, Amory. Our door is always open for 
you." 

" It's good of you to say that, sir. I should think 
you and Mrs. Howland and the Averys would want 
to avoid me, since I came back when Tom and Put 
didn't." 

"We don't feel so, Amory. The fact that you 



92 JOURNEY'S END 

were the intimate friend of our dead sons only 
gives Henry and me a very special interest in you." 

When the young man had gone, John Howland 
went thoughtfully to his safe. With another key 
he unlocked a private compartment and from a 
secret drawer concealed therein, took an envelope 
marked : " Russell Trust." 

He spent ten minutes in reading the paper it con- 
tained and then locked and double-locked its abid- 
ing-place. 

"Well " he said again. "That will was 

made when Amory was just twenty-one. From this 
interview, it looks to me, — it very much looks to 
me, — as though Robert's hopes for young Amory 
were likely to be justified." 



CHAPTER Vn 

IN WHICH AMORY HELPS A DAMSEL IN DISTRESS AND 
SEES THE WHITE WINQ AGAIN 

FROM the lawyer's office, Amory went straight 
to a duty that could but be hard, a call on 
Putnam Avery's parents. It was one that 
could not be avoided nor postponed, and yet proved 
far harder than he anticipated. He himself was 
bound to them by ties of affectionate association, 
and shared sincerely in their sorrow. Mrs. Avery 
tried her best to greet him calmly, but ended by 
crying on his shoulder, while Amory sat with arms 
about her, telling her again every incident of that 
night in the field hospital, every word Putnam had 
said. In the big chair opposite, Henry Avery, his 
eyes concealed by a shadowing hand, listened in 
silence. 

When Amory reached Journey's End, the after- 
noon was drawing on. He went straight through 
the hall to the garden door. 

" Oh, Amory," said Mrs. Russell's voice, " I am 
glad thee has come. I am on the terrace and here 
is Elizabeth, who is in pain from some object in her 
eye." 

Amory opened the screen-door and stepped out on 

93 



94 JOUKNEY^S END 

the bricked platform. There, in her accustomed 
chair, sat his aunt, dressed in silvery gray silk, and 
close beside her the girl whom he had met in the 
garden the previous morning, handkerchief pressed 
to her face and looking anything but glad to see 
him. As a matter of fact, Elizabeth had watched 
him leave Journey's End, and deliberately chosen 
the time of his absence to visit Mrs. Russell. 

" Elizabeth, this is my nephew, Amory," said the 
soft voice. "Elizabeth Emerson, the dear young 
friend, of whom I spoke to thee, Amory. I have 
been trying to relieve her pain, but I cannot find 
the speck which is causing it." 

" If Miss Emerson will permit me," said Amory. 
" Just a moment until I wash my hands." 

He smiled as he went into the house, for nothing 
could have been less cordial than Elizabeth's ac- 
knowledgment of the introduction. She did not 
even offer her hand, merely nodded stiffly with no 
trace of the freakish manner in which she had taken 
leave of him after their encounter in the garden. 
In less than the time specified he wa^ back and put- 
ting a chair into place. 

" Will you sit here so that I may have the light 
as I want it? " 

Elizabeth did not speak. She was mortified and 
distressed at her predicament, but she did as re- 
quested. The next second a hand with a firm but 



AMOEY HELPS A DAMSEL 95 

very gentle contact touched her cheek and forehead, 
pressed back the lid. 

" Please look upward," said Amory. " Now, to 
your left." 

Something touched the eyeball softly, and the 
next second Elizabeth, her reddened eye still weep- 
ing, was free from pain. 

" There is the speck," said Amory, showing her a 
minute black dot on his otherwise spotless handker- 
chief. 

" Such a little thing to hurt so much," observed 
Elizabeth. 

" Now, some hot water will complete the cure," 
replied Dr. Kussell, going into the house to return 
presently, carrying a brass finger-bowl. 

" Just dabble it with this," he said, offering her 
the bowl and a folded bit of antiseptic gauze. "As 
hot as you can stand it. 

"I always like to take things out of people's 
eyes," he observed as Elizabeth complied in silence. 
" That and getting wax out of ears are two of the 
few completely satisfactory things a doctor can do. 
So many times we really can't set matters abso- 
lutely right, but those simple operations give such 
instant relief that it is a pleasure to perform 
them." 

" I feel very much indebted," murmured Eliza- 
beth in a formal manner. 



96 JOUElSrEY'S END 

" Well, you can do me a good turn in exchange," 
said Amory with a hint of fun in his voice. " You 
see, I'm just back in the United States. Will you 
kindly inform me, Miss Emerson, if the hair-cut 
which the Freeport barber has inflicted upon me is 
the latest and most desirable style? " 

Elizabeth took a good look at the back of the 
handsome head presented for her inspection, forgot 
her dignity and began to giggle helplessly. 

"Amory Eussell ! " exclaimed his aunt. " What 
a naughty boy thee is ! Why did thee have thy hair 
cut in that uncouth fashion? '' 

Amory laughed as heartily as Elizabeth. " Be- 
cause, little aunt of mine, I was reading the paper, 
and didn't look into the glass until the matter was 
past all help. When I did look and beheld myself, 
shaved above the ears on sides and back, I nearly 
fell out of the chair. Words failed me. I was 
about to arise and murder the barber, when the look 
of pious joy on his face as he admired the work of 
his hands struck me, and I laughed instead. Thee 
should be thankful, Aunt Eunice, that I looked up 
when I did. Consider how thee would feel had I 
come home with not a hair between me and 
heaven ! " 

"What a ridiculous boy thee is," sighed Mrs. 
Russell, while Elizabeth continued to laugh. 
" Thee is certainly a sight. Thy neck is so tanned 



AMORY HELPS A DAMSEL 97 

that thee has no idea how absurd is that shaven 
stretch to the very tips of thy ears." 

" Then I must keep my face turned toward thee," 
observed her nephew sweetly. " But tell me, Miss 
Emerson, is this really the proper thing for Free 
port? " 

" The very latest fashion," Elizabeth informed 
him. " I can assure you that you won't be con- 
spicuous." 

" Reassure thyself. Aunt Eunice. And I will en- 
deavor to tan the newly-shaven portion to match 
the rest. Miss Emerson, did you, by any chance, 
do war work in France? " 

" No," said Elizabeth bluntly. " Dot and Mar- 
ion, my older sisters, both went. Dot as a secretary 
with the Red Cross and Marion with the French 
Relief. I wanted to go, and Mother said I might, 
but she was r mining a hostess house at one of the 
camps, and it was hard on Dad to have us all away. 
So I stayed with him and my little brother." 

" I asked because it seems as though I had met 
you somewhere before. Possibly it might have 
been one of your sisters, at some Red Cross dance 
or entertainment." 

"It might have been Marion. She and I look 
something alike." 

" Perhaps it was. Just let me see Low your eye 
Ifl now." 



98 JOUKNEY'S END 

Elizabetk raised her head, this time less ungra- 
ciously, to permit a close inspection. " It's much 
better and the irritation is entirely gone," she said. 

Amory looked carefully at her eye, but the pro- 
fessional examination completed, took one fleeting 
glance of a more personal nature. 

" Very dark slate-gray, almost black,'' he said to 
himself. " Curious eyes, — like stormy thunder- 
clouds." 

"Yes, it looks all right," he added aloud. A 
whimsical wish came over him to see Elizabeth in 
the unregenerate garments which had aroused his 
aunt's indignation. Whatever Mrs. Kussell's pur- 
pose in telling him that story, she had succeeded in 
arousing his interest. To-day, there was certainly 
nothing to be criticized in Elizabeth's dainty and 
becoming apparel. 

" I wish thee wouldn't hurry," said Mrs. Kussell 
as the girl made a motion to go. " She has been 
telling me, Amory, of her visit to Neponset and to 
Bristol, and with what interest she saw the ship- 
yards in both places." 

"At Neponset they were working on a big yacht," 
said Elizabeth; "such a beautiful, live thing she 
was. And yet she was named the Vanitie. I hated 
her to have that name, for whatever else a boat is, 
it has too much dignity to be frivolous." 

" That is exactly the way I feel," said Amory, 



AMORY HELPS A DAMSEL 99 

rather surprised at this somewhat subtle comment. 
"A boat may be coquettish and skittish, but it is 
like the playfulness of a kitten or a spirited horse, 
something too full of the joy of life to be vain. Do 
you enjoy sailing. Miss Emerson? " 

"Very much. But I^m not allowed to have a 
boat. Dad is willing to let me sail if I take some 
old moss-backed skipper along, but he won't let me 
go by myself, — not even with Billy. I really must 
go, dear Aunt Eunice. I came only for a minute 
and Vve stopped forever." 

" Thee is so welcome that thy visits always seem 
short. Hand me my wrap, Amory, and we will 
walk to the sea-wall with Elizabeth. The garden- 
shears, too, dear, that she may have some roses." 

The three sauntered slowly down the central gar- 
den walk, past the sun-dial, Elizabeth and Mrs. 
Russell consulting over the flowers. Amory was 
rather silent. He obediently cut the roses indi- 
cated by his aunt, and to-day Elizabeth did not 
specify their color. As they came in full view of 
the harbor, Amory gave a sudden exclamation. 

Elizabeth looked up. He stood with gaze fixed 
on a pretty white boat anchored off-shore, a fair- 
sized sloop with the fine, clean lines of a yacht. 
Freshly-painted, with a green trimming, she dipped 
and rose buoyantly on the harbor swell, her bare 
mast describing rakish circles against the sky. 



100 JOUENEY'S END 

Nearer at hand was her dinghy, painted to match 
and fastened to a pulley-float. 

Elizabeth thought the boat a beauty, but was also 
struck by the expression of blank surprise on Dr. 
Russell's face. She glanced at his aunt, to see 
there a look of sweet expectancy. 

"Aunt Eunice, thee is truly adorable ! " exclaimed 
Amory the next second. " My own Whitewing! 
and thee has had her put in shape. I shall posi- 
tively have to hug thee at once, and if Miss Emer- 
son doesn't like it, she may look the other way ! " 

Elizabeth only smiled sympathetically. 

"Who but thee would have thought of it?" 
Amory went on, still standing with one arm around 
the slender gray-clad figure. 

" I knew thee would wish to sail, so in Fourth 
month, when thee wrote thy intention to be here 
this early summer, I sent for Ezra Lindsay and 
directed him to put the Whitewing in good condi- 
tion with fresh paint and new cordage or canvas as 
needed. She should have been here to greet thy 
arrival, but Ezra found her seams had opened badly 
during her long stay out of water. Ezra is not a 
rapid workman, as thee knows, but he is a faithful 
one. He brought her during thy absence this after- 
noon and said he had sailed her around Clam 
Island and that she was shipshape for thy use." 

"Isn't she adorable, Miss Emerson?" asked 



AMORY HELPS A DAMSEL 101 

Amory boyishly. "Aunt Eunice, I mean," he 
added as Elizabeth glanced at the boat. 

" Indeed she is ! " agreed Elizabeth heartily, with 
a charming expression suddenly lighting her face. 

" There, children, you should not exaggerate. I 
have told thee in the past, Amory, that thee 
' adores ' no one but thy Creator." 

" That's all thee knows about me. Aunt Eunice," 
said Amory, laughing so contagiously that Eliza- 
beth laughed also, both at his tone and at the 
abrupt impulsive embrace in which he again seized 
Mrs. Russell. 

" It was simply bully of thee. This afternoon I 
was thinking of the Whitewing and longing to be 
out in her, but I knew she'd leak like a sieve. I 
came home meaning to have her put in the water at 
once." 

He was silent and his aunt, ever watching his 
face, knew that across his mind flashed a memory 
of the boys who used to sail the Whiieimng with 
him. It was borne in upon her that Amory m^st 
take his first trip alone. Out in the wide stretches 
of the sunny harbor, in the surging tide and the 
clean salt smell of the sea, the memories that came 
to him would be tender and loving but not wholly 
sad. And for his healing, he must go out to meet 
them alone. 

"Some day soon, when the wind is fair," she 



102 JOUKNEY'S END 

said, turning to Elizabeth, " if Amory will take us, 
would tliee like to try the Whitewing? Amory is a 
careful seaman, but it is best for him to take her 
first by himself, get his hand in as he would say, but 
when he has done that, would thee like to go? '' 

" rd simply adore it ! " exclaimed Elizabeth im- 
petuously, and then clapped her hand over her 
mouth with a mischievous startled look at Mrs. 
Russell. The gesture was so spontaneous and her 
expression so precisely that of a naughty child, that 
it swept the sadness from Amory's face and sent 
him into sympathetic amusement. 

" Unmannerly children ! " sighed Eunice Russell 
in pretended displeasure. "You should both be 
set down to an hour's meditation. But I like to 
sail, Elizabeth, and I Imow the main sheet when I 
see it, and a schooner from a brig. When Amory 
has taken the Whitewiny for a trial spin, we will 
plan a little expedition together." 



CHAPTER Vm 

IN WHICH AMOEY CONSIDERS THE DRAGON 

WITHIN a few days Journey's End became 
the scene of a small army of busy work- 
. men, since to arrange the east wing for 
the use of a physician required numerous changes. 

Having heard John Howland's approval of 
Amory's decision to stay in Preeport, Mrs. Russell 
made no further protest, but accepted his determi- 
nation with a thankful heart. Amory refused the 
two offers made him, with firmness but not without 
regret. It was true that he already had to his 
credit more hospital experience than falls to the 
share of the average young medical graduate, but 
to accept either offer would have thrown him in con- 
tact with men disposed to be helpful, and who could 
have placed in his way opportunities to speedy 
advancement. 

Amory fully realized that the decision was in a 
sense a sacrifice, but he did not permit himself to 
reconsider nor to show his aunt those letters. Once, 
after the matter was settled and the thing irrevo- 
cable, he was annoyed as well as surprised by a 

103 



104 JOUENEY'S END 

sudden thought which appeared thrust upon his 
attention from some subconscious depth. 

" The palmist at that fool festival into which I 
wandered gave me a piece of advice," the thought 
took shape. " Now, what was it? " 

Amory cudgeled his mind for the words of that 
warning, and the next moment they stood before his 
mental vision as though written in fire: "Think 
twice, yes, three times, before you take any impor- 
tant step in life, and ask advice not only of your 
heart, but of your intellect." 

Amory sat considering the memory. He had no 
faith in the palmist, no belief in anything of the 
kind. He had been brought up to look upon such 
matters as tricks and deception, but he had dealt 
enough with his fellow-men to be an observant and 
keen reader of character. He had come out of that 
booth with the impression that the lady personify- 
ing the Italian princess was herself in earnest and 
practising no conscious deceit. 

" Well, I have made a decision which will prob- 
ably affect my whole life," he said to himself, " and 
I can't claim that I made it in haste. It is true 
that Aunt Eunice's condition at present is not such 
as to be a source of immediate anxiety, and true 
that I have turned down two offers most chaps 
would have jumped at. When I analyze that deci- 
sion down to the ground, I did listen to my heart 



AMORY CONSIDERS THE DRAGON 105 

and not my head. Still, I chose what seemed my 
duty, and John Howland agreed with me, and he is 
a keen man of business. And Uncle Henry Avery 
thinks I have done the right thing; he told me so. 
No, I don't regret it, though, of course, I couldn't 
afford to do it if I were dependent on what I can 
make out of a practice here. And I have been taught 
to believe that when one earnestly seelis for guid- 
ance in a difficulty, a clear leading will be given. 
This seemed the path indicated for me, but neither 
Fenwick nor Cutter will understand." 

Neither one did understand, and both wrote 
Amory plainly that he was making a serious mis- 
take, though Dr. Fenwick tempered his letter by a 
kindly assurance that he would keep Dr. Russell in 
mind. Amory shut those letters into his desk and 
went on with his preparations. 

"Why does thee never use the east parlor? " he 
asked one morning when he and his aunt were re- 
turning from their usual inspection of the work 
accomplished on the previous day. It was yet 
early and the men had not arrived. 

"I really cannot tell thee, Amory,'' said Mrs. 
Russell as they stood on the threshold of the room 
specified. " It is just a vague dislike I feel for the 
place, a foolish dislike, since I cannot put it into 
words. Whenever I come here for a few moments, 
it seems to me that my mind becomes unruly and I 



106 JOUKNEY'S END 

cannot control nor concentrate my thoughts. 1 
have never been especially drawn to this room." 

" In itself it is beautiful," said Amory, glancing 
around. " The mahogany furniture is especially 
fine, and I like the rugs and the ivory dragon ca- 
vorting on the mantel." 

" The rugs are valuable," replied his aunt. " Thy 
Uncle Robert considered the Shiraz there one of the 
finest in his collection. And the Beluchistan he 
also prized. It was but a Turcoman rug which 
Caroline chose for her experiments in magic, and 
though it was costly it was not without price as is 
that Shiraz." 

" I know very little about the rugs," observed 
Amory, " only that they are beautiful. Thee must 
teach me the distinctions between them." 

" Robert enjoyed them as so many pictures," said 
his aunt, looking at the wonderful silken prayer- 
mat hanging on the wall opposite. " I, too, care 
for them, but I have never liked that dragon." 

" I like the old chap," said Amory, crossing the 
room to look at it. "He^s a marvelous piece of 
work." 

The ivory dragon in question was about a foot in 
length and six inches high, standing on a green 
velvet mat under a low glass bell which protected 
from dust its intricately carved and lapped scales. 
Such nicety of execution seemed scarcely possible 



AMOKY CONSIDERS THE DRAGON 107 

for human hands; it had almost the perfection of 
nature. The eyes, faintly tinged with green, fairly 
glared at the observer, and from its mouth extended 
a venomous tongue. Almost one could hear the 
hiss of escaping hate. 

" That carving is very old," said Mrs. Russell. 
" I recall that Robert dated the dragon far beyond 
the Christian era." 

" It's odd," observed Amory thoughtfully, " but 
this dragon is almost the only curiosity in Jour- 
ney's End that Uncle Robert never told me about. 
I believe I could pass an examination on practically 
everything else that any of the Russells brought 
from India or China, but I don't know the first 
thing about this." 

" Neither do I, save that Robert once told me that 
it came to his father, the third Amory, with a sin- 
ister story attached, but I have never heard the 
story, nor do I know whether Robert himself knew 
it." 

"Didn't it once have an amulet of some sort 
about its neck? " 

"Thee is right, Amory. There was tied to its 
neck by a golden wire a square of jade with a single 
large baroque pearl set in its centre and surrounding 
the pearl some characters in the Chinese language. 
It was curious and strange, but of no especial value, 
and when it caught Caroline's eye on her last visit 



108 JOUENEY'S END 

here, I took it from the dragon^s neck and gave it 
to her. I was surprised that she cared for it, for 
Caroline has her mother's jewels as well as the 
many Jermain has given her, but this was barbaric 
enough to be in the present fashion, and Caroline 
was pleased. She attached it to her golden chain 
as a pendant and, if one cares for that sort of per- 
sonal ornament, it was not uncomely." 

"I can imagine it would be rather stunning," 
said Amory, passing on. " I thought the dragon 
didn't look just as I remembered it, but it is the 
absence of that amulet." 

" If thee likes this room especially, we will sit 
here," added his aunt. 

" Oh, I don't. It is more stately and formal than 
the west room. That lends itself to thy knitting 
and my books and papers well enough." 

" I have found more peace in the west wing," said 
his aunt. " I will tell Lydia that we are ready for 
breakfast. It seems to be late." 

Amory delayed, looking around the east parlor 
with its many odd and valuable ornaments. The 
blue vases on either side of the dragon he knew to 
be worth their weight in gold ; the Boston Museum 
had once offered to buy t'lem. To set such a price 
upon a bit of porcelain seemed absurd. With a 
sweep of the hand he could brush one aside and it 
would lie a useless heap of fragments. That Shiraz 



AMOKY CONSIDEES THE DKAGON 109 

rug, too, with its shimmering colors and silken tex- 
ture, — in three minutes could be reduced to a heap 
of valueless fragments. The jeweled sword in its 
scabbard was doubtless as effective after centuries 
of disuse as in the days when some oriental noble- 
man used it to crack the skulls of his enemies. 

And all these had crossed more seas than one. 
What tales of distant lands, of love and hate and 
far-off, shadowy sorrows and sin they might tell, 
could they but speak, could they but impress upon 
a susceptible mind the aura of past environment, 
too subtle for ordinary human senses to perceive. 

" Breakfast is ready, Amory," said Lydia's voice. 
" Thy aunt is seated." 

Amory came back from his musings with a sense 
of irritation over the interruption. He was sur- 
prised to realize that he had drawn the sword and 
held its naked blade. Down its grooved hilt ran a 
little shower of loose pearls, making curious music 
in their course. 

" Thee had better put that aside, Amory," said 
Lydia. " The coffee will cool." 

" What on earth makes me so cross? " thought 
Amory, appreciating that he had slammed the 
sword into its protecting case with a petulance en- 
tirely foreign to his nature. '^ Why shouldn't Lydia 
tell me not to keep Aunt Eunice waiting? " 

" There are letters for thee," said his aunt as he 



110 JOUKNEY'S END 

joined her on the terrace where Lydia had laid the 
table. " The postman must have reversed his route. 
At times our mail comes between ten and eleven, 
but again we are among the first deliveries. It was 
always a pleasure to come to my breakfast and to 
see, even at a distance, the censor's stamp upon an 
envelope. It proved a slight trial when the post- 
man, no doubt for his own good purposes, came to 
Journey's End at the close of his route." 

Amory glanced at his mail. " Thee will excuse 
me, Aunt Eunice? Ah, this is what I thought, my 
license to practise medicine in the State of Massa- 
chusetts. Now, when thee has need of my services, 
I can offer them legitimately. My weekly examina- 
tion of thy heart, even the removal of a cinder from 
Elizabeth Emerson's eye, have not been completely 
within the law." 

"I have sometimes thought the men who make 
the laws do not show marked intelligence," said 
Mrs. Russell so gently that Amory burst out laugh- 
ing. 

" Especially when they insist upon thy nephew's 
showing good reason why he should think himself 
fit to cure the ills of Freeport? Thee is unlike 
Aunt Ruth Avery. When Put finished at Tech and 
went to build a railroad in Cuba, she said to me: 
* Do you think my Putnam knows enough to build 
a real railway? ' Now, if I should attempt to fl^y 



AMOEY CONSIDERS THE DRAGON 111 

an airplane without instruction, thee would express 
confidence in my success." 

"And is thee not glad that somebody in the world 
has absolute confidence in thee? Not that I wish 
to go on thy first flight." 

" It is worth everything, Aunt Eunice. And we 
shall not need to risk the airplane, for Couch says 
here that the car I ordered is ready for delivery. 
We will go for a joy-ride to-night." 

"And that will be safer than thy untamed air- 
plane. Did thee hear the Emersons depart very 
early this morning? " 

"No," said Amory. "Where are they going?" 

" It is Mrs. Emerson and the two older girls, and 
they are motoring to Bar Harbor, where they will 
spend most of the summer with Mrs. Emerson's 
sister. Elizabeth did not go. She is the daughter 
who takes thought for her father, and she does not 
willingly leave him at the mercy of servants. In 
another week William departs for a boys' camp, 
and that will leave the father and daughter alone." 

" It's rather good of her not to go back on Mr. 
Emerson," commented her nephew. 

"Elizabeth and her father hold each other in 
affection, perhaps more so than the other members 
of the family," remarked Mrs. Russell thoughtfully. 
" I do not think Elizabeth is wholly happy with her 
mother. Mrs. Emerson's ambitions for her girls 



112 JOUKNEY'S END 

are worldly, and while Dorothy and Marion seem 
to approve and to fall in with them, Elizabeth alter- 
nates between wild moods when she will go as far 
and do as strange things as any of the reckless 
young people, and others when she is thoughtful 
and womanly. During the war, while she felt that 
duty required her to stay with her father, she threw 
herself heart and soul into work at home, and 
showed herself most efficient both in its planning 
and in its execution. At the time of the influenza 
epidemic, when nurses were few, she went person- 
ally into the homes of the stricken. When I en- 
counter Elizabeth in one of her frivolous moods, I 
recall to my mind how she tended sick children in 
the isolation hospital. There was a night when a 
nurse was urgently needed for a boy of sixteen, a 
poor boy seriously ill with pneumonia in a forlorn 
home. Elizabeth, who had taken the courses in 
first-aid, listened to the directions of the physician, 
and alone stood by that lad and cared for him until 
an experienced attendant could be secured. With- 
out doubt she saved his life. 

" I count as a gain from this terrible conflict,'* 
Mrs. Eussell continued, "that I saw below the 
frivolous exterior of some of my neighbors. I 
found in those whom I supposed had no serious 
ideal or ambition sincere desire to help and ability 
to do so. I found unexpected fijie qualities in those 



AMOKY CONSIDEKS THE DRAGOISr 113 

whom I blindly thought to be devoted only to the 
pursuit of self-indulgent pleasure. It was a lesson 
to me and I have tried to follow more humbly and 
more carefully the commandment against judging 
others. I see the smile in thy eyes, Amory, but thee 
does not know my temptations, how serious they 
are nor how often I weakly yield. Shall I refill thy 
cup? " 

" Please," said Amory. " Is it too sunny for thee 
on the harbor, or would thee like to go sailing 
again? " 

" I felt some slight fatigue the other day when we 
went and took Elizabeth," said his aunt, lifting the 
heavy silver coffee-pot. " Perhaps it would be bet- 
ter for me not to go out in this sun. Why does thee 
not ask Phebe Ames to go with thee? It would 
please Hannah to have thee do so, and would not be 
displeasing to Phebe herself." 

" I might," said Amory. " Fortunately I called 
there the other night, so it won't seem too informal 
to telephone an invitation, will it? Is thee sure 
thee does not wish to go? Will thee trust Phebe 
and me unchaperoned together? " 

" Thee thinks thee teases me, Amory," said his 
aunt, handing back the cup, " but thee forgets that 
I taught thee proper manners, and that Phebe is the 
granddaughter of Hannah Ames." 



CHAPTER IX 

m WHICH ELIZABETH LOSES HER TEMPER AND LOOKS 
OVER A HIGH WALL 

ELIZABETH'S intimacy with their charming 
Quaker neighbor had never escaped the 
observant eyes of her family. It was a 
"crush" that amused her sisters, slightly aston> 
ished her mother, and met with sympathy from her 
father. Having been in the Freeport bank one day 
when Mrs. Russell entered to transact some busi- 
ness, Mr. Emerson, noticing the extreme deference 
paid her by the cashier, the courtesy with which the 
manager came himself to attend to the slender lady 
in the quaint bonnet and gray silk gown, had looked 
with interested attention which soon became re- 
spect. 

He listened with genuine pleasure to the tales 
Elizabeth related of the lovely owner of the great 
house next door, and at her request, went with his 
daughter to call. After that call, though a com- 
parative stranger in Freeport, he would willingly 
have performed for Eunice Russell any service she 
might ask. There was in John Emerson's nature a 

114 



ELIZABETH LOSES HER TEMPER 115 

strain which responded at once to the simple charm 
of her manner and to the story told by her face. 
Her influence upon his favorite daughter could not 
be otherwise than fine, and he secretly thought 
Elizabeth improved by the friendship. He could 
scarcely put into words the vague discomfort and 
unhappiness caused by the devotion of his wife and 
his older daughters to society; he only knew that 
divided from the Fiske house by a ten-foot brick 
wall, lay a little world of roses and gentle living, 
where his Elizabeth seemed to cultivate qualities 
which did not flourish at home. 

Dorothy and Marion considered Elizabeth's lik- 
ing for Mrs. Russell merely a queer whim. Bess 
was liable to be odd and to like odd people, and 
though both agreed that Mrs. Russell was an " old 
dear " and Journey's End a treasure-trove of lovely 
things, neither cared in the least to stay in its at- 
mosphere. So, until the advent of Amory, Eliza- 
beth was laughed at mildly, but left to do as she 
pleased. If she liked to help Mrs. Russell garden 
or run over to show her new dancing-frock, it was 
funny, but just like Bess. 

With Dr. Russell's return, the attitude of the 
Emerson family underwent a change. As Billy ex- 
pressed it, they began to sit up and take notice. 
And the notice annoyed Elizabeth. 

After her first blundering into the garden, un- 



116 JOUENEY'S END 

aware that Amory was at home, and her call at a 
time when she knew he had left the house, she 
stayed away until Mrs. Russell telephoned to ask 
if she would go sailing. 

The rest of the family considered the invitation 
a huge joke, and Elizabeth, resenting their amuse- 
ment, went down to the Whitewing in a mood which 
made her eyes more like storm-clouds than ever and 
which did not relax until she was well under the 
spell of Mrs. RusselFs sweet influence. She was a 
silent Elizabeth, save for one or two spontaneous 
outbreaks which gave a glimpse of her real self, and 
which made Amory wonder why this girl, every 
time he encountered her, began by being sulky and 
ended in a mood which attracted him and left him 
wishing to see her again. During the latter part 
of their sail Elizabeth forgot her irritation and 
frankly enjoyed herself. When the little yacht 
again reached her moorings and the sails dropped 
and lay in folds in the soft evening light, she helped 
furl them and stepped into the tender to be rowed 
ashore, with a real peace in her heart, a peace 
which quickly fled when she encountered her sisters 
in the up-stairs sitting-room belonging to the three 
girls. 

" Did your blue linen middy make its expected 
impression? " drawled Dorothy, who lay reading on 
the couch, while Marion sat at the desk, her pen 



ELIZABETH LOSES HER TEMPER 117 

poised over a letter to her fianc^. Marion liad 
come home from France with an " understanding/' 
an arrangement which Mrs. Emerson eagerly sanc- 
tioned and Mr. Emerson reluctantly tolerated. 

" I don^t know what you mean," said Elizabeth 
curtly. 

" On Dr. Russell, darling. Wasn't that why you 
wore it? I believe you've been cultivating Mrs. 
Russell all these months so as to have the inside 
track now." 

" I'd hate to own such a horrid mind as you have, 
Dot," said Elizabeth indignantly. "You know 
that isn't true. She's a dear and I loved her before 
I even knew she had a nephew. And it was she 
who invited me, not Dr. Russell. I don't think he 
cared a rap about my being aboard. He was taken 
up with his boat and with his aunt. He was sweet 
to her, and just ordinarily polite to me." 

" Do you hear, Marion? " chuckled Dorothy. 
" Bess expected him to be sweet to her! That's 
pretty rapid action, my child. Don't crowd him ! 
Consider, too, that you had a third person pres- 
ent." 

"I think you are hateful. Dot. You know I 
didn't mean that. I don't believe any girl would 
come before his aunt ; he is devoted to her." 

"Why, naturally," said the exasperating Dor- 
othy. "He has good reason for devotion. Bert 



118 JOUKNEY'S END 

Conwell told me that Mrs. RusselPs husband left 
everything to her ; didn't give Amory a single cent. 
If he wants it after his aunt dies, he'd better make 
up to her. Bert says Mrs. Russell is the wealthiest 
woman in Freeport." 

^' I don't believe one word of it," sputtered Eliza- 
beth. " He isn't nice only because it's to his inter- 
est, but because he loves her. Nobody could see 
them together and doubt it." 

" Somebody told me," said Marion, speaking for 
the first time, " that Dr. Russell inherited a lot of 
money from his own father. It wouldn't be a bad 
thing for Bess and certainly " 

The sound of a violently closed door broke Mar- 
ion's sentence. 

" Pass the cigarettes, that's a dear," sighed Dor- 
othy. "Of course, it would be a fine thing for 
Bess ; Mother said so herself. We didn't know Mrs. 
Russell's nephew was such a catch, but the girls are 
all talking about him, and it looks as though Bess 
knew the whole time. If I weren't going to Bar 
Harbor and you weren't spoken for, we might have 
some fun. I really didn't give Bess credit for being 
so far-sighted. If she manages right, it ought not 
to be a hard job." 

" I wouldn't bet on Elizabeth," observed Marion, 
selecting a cigarette for herself and throwing the 
box to Dorothy. "And I wouldn't push her too far, 



ELIZABETH LOSES HER TEMPER 119 

Dot. If you say too much she'll turn balky. Hush, 
she's coming back." 

Elizabeth reopened the door with a scowling dig- 
nity that included in its disapproval both sisters. 
She cast a glance at the table. 

" Is it that letter you dropped? " asked Marion, 
pointing to the envelope on the floor. 

" I see now why you chose not to go to Bar Har- 
bor, Bess," drawled Dot between puffs of her ciga- 
rette. " But Father answers very well for an ex- 
cuse." 

" I stayed with Father all the time you two were 
in France," snapped Elizabeth. " He's no more of 
an excuse now than he was then." 

Dorothy looked reflectively at the door, slamming 
for the second time. 

" Bess has such a temper ! " she sighed. " Tm 
just as well pleased that she decided not to go to 
Maine." 

In her own room, Elizabeth cried for fifteen min- 
utes, bitterly, resentfully, and over something she 
could feel rather than express in words, cried in 
angry protest over being credited with unworthy 
and sordid motives. Her sisters seemed somehow 
to profane that bit of pure idealistic friendship 
which had touched with beauty her irresponsible 
girlhood. And yet Elizabeth was too fundamen- 
tally honest not to acknowledge that the part of her 



120 JOUKNEY'S ENJy 

nature which sometimes broke into wild extrava- 
gances of youthful folly might be capable of low 
motives. 

After a time she rose from her bed, dried her eyes 
and sat by the window watching the sunset splen- 
dors that yet lent color to the harbor. It was abso- 
lutely no use to care because Dot and Marion mis- 
judged her; they estimated others incorrectly as 
well. Dr. Eussell had been in a gay, engagingly 
boyish mood that afternoon, singing his aunt an 
absurd nautical ditty about a ship called the Wal- 
loping Window-Blind^ saying funny, teasing things 
to her, which Mrs. Eussell met with bright counter- 
thrusts of her own. Could Marion and Dot listen 
to such a conversation and believe it sprang from 
anything but deep and enduring affection on either 
side? Elizabeth did not credit them with such 
stupid blindness. 

" He was perfectly dear to her," she thought, " in 
the nicest kind of way, too. K he ever really made 
love to a girl " 

Blushing and indignant with herself for the very 
thought, Elizabeth undressed, went to bed and 
resolutely read until she was sleepy. 

A week after the sail and this conversation, 
Elizabeth and her father sat down to a late break- 
fast, the rest of the family having made their early 
start for Maine, 



ELIZABETH LOSES HER TEMPER 1-3 

"It's good of you to stay with me, Bess," ob- 
served Mr. Emerson over his newspaper and his 
second cup of coffee. " I appreciate it." 

" I hate it at Aunt Anne's," admitted Elizabeth 
bluntly. " I hate a lot of things, Daddy. I guess 
I'm growing hateful." 

" Well, don't end by hating me," said her father 
whimsically. " What ! a telegram? " 

" Yes, sir," replied the maid, presenting it at his 
elbow. 

" This means New York," said Mr. Emerson, hav- 
ing read it. " I suppose I shall have to go, but I 
am sorry to leave you alone over night with only 
Billy, my girl. By the way," he added, running a 
discontented hand through his hair, "where is 
Billy? " 

" Gone for a picnic on the dunes with five other 
boys and a perfectly immense lunch. No, Daddy, 
they're not going near a boat. It is to be a clam 
roast, I know, for I gave Billy the money for the 
clams." 

" I'm sorry you'll have a lonely day. Can't you 
telephone some girl to come to lunch with you or go 
to lunch with her? Or come into Boston with me. 
I'll meet you at noon and take you to the Copley." 

"I think I'll have a quiet day at home. Dad. 
Thank you just the same." 

" Whatever pleases you, Bess. Will you pack a 




JOUENEY'S END 



bag for me or tell somebody to do it? 1^11 stop for 
it on my way to the station, and I'll telegraph to- 
morrow if I'm not coming back." 

" I'll pack your bag," said his daughter, and 
about ten she went to her father's room to do so. 
Her task completed, she stepped to the window, in- 
tending to adjust a curtain left askew by a careless 
maid. 

" Why, I didn't realize Daddy's room overlooked 
the garden of Journey's End," she thought. 
" There's the sun-dial and the fountain and down 
below the sea-wall the Whitewing. I can see a tiny 
bit of the terrace and windows open in the corner 
room. That must be Dr. Russell's room, for Aunt 
Eunice's is at the front." 

Elizabeth stood idly, for the picture spread below 
was charming in its sunlit serenity. 

" There's dear Aunt Eunice/' she thought, and 
leaned from the window ready to call. She checked 
herself suddenly as she saw that Mrs. Russell was 
not alone, but accompanied by a girl about her own 
age, a slender girl dressed in white. As she looked^ 
both turned back. 

"Amory," called Mrs. Russell's sweet voice, 
" bring Phebe's wrap from the terrace." 

Elizabeth heard the assenting answer and the 
next second saw Dr. Russell coming from the house, 
oars over his shoulder, a dark blue sweater over one 



ELIZABETH LOSES HEE TEMPER 123 

arm and a rose-colored one on the other. He was 
singing as he came and the words, in the decidedly- 
musical voice Elizabeth had already heard, were 
distinctly audible : 

* * ' Ah, love, do you deem me cruel 
That I leave you here alone ? 
But the wide sea calls her children ; 
Each goes at last to his own.' " 

"Yes, that's true," thought Elizabeth bitterly, 
" of every one of us according to the company we 
keep and the ideals we try to reach. I'm not on a 
par with the people who live in Journey's End and 
I never shall be. And Dot is hateful, just hateful 
to me." 

But she did not leave the window, and presently 
she saw two w^hite-clad figures row out in the 
dinghy, saw Dr. Russell help his companion aboard 
the WMtewing, saw the mainsail raised and the 
boat head for the outer harbor. Presently Mrs. 
Russell returned to the house. 

" Phebe is a Quaker name," Elizabeth's thoughts 
ran as the little yacht grew more distant. " Prob- 
ably she is somebody he's always known and is glad 
to get back to. He's put up the flying- jib. There 
can't be so much wind as we had the other day. I 
wonder whether I could go over to Journey's End 
and transplant that phlox without anybody's know- 



124 JOURNEY'S END 

ing. The Whiteimng won't be back for two hours 
at least and Aunt Eunice needn't see me if I work 
only in that border. Somehow I think I might feel 
less hateful if I were on the other side of that wall 
for a while." 



CHAPTER X 

IN WHICH BILLY THINKS HE IS DYING 

BILLY'S picnic on the dunes proved all that 
a boy of fourteen could demand of a pleas- 
ant day, boon companions and plentiful 
food. Elizabeth thought of him more than once 
during the passing hours, for she, too, loved the 
dunes, and in some of her moods would drive her 
car till further progress became impossible, and 
tramp for half a day in their solitudes. 

T\Tien her brother arrived that night, tired, sun- 
burned and incredibly dirty, but in excellent spirits 
and completely satisfied with his day, she was wait- 
ing for him on the beach and listened with sisterly 
appreciation to his tale. Billy approved of Eliza- 
beth, openly declaring that she was worth Dot and 
Marion put together, and on finding her alone at 
home, loudly proclaimed his satisfaction. 

" I don't mind Dad ; he doesn't butt in, but Dot 
is the limit. Fm glad they've gone to Maine. I'd 
rather have you than all the rest of the bunch." 

The artless comment fell sweetly on Elizabeth's 
sore heart and injured pride. She reciprocated by 
ordering delicacies for Billy's evening meal. 

125 



126 JOURNEY'S END 

" I don't feel so very hungry," he admitted. " 1 
guess I'll go to bed." 

" I would," said Elizabeth, dismissing him with 
a pat on the rough head. " Take a hot bath, Billy ; 
do, and you'll sleep like a top. I'm coming up be- 
fore long." 

Billy blundered up-stairs, already half asleep, 
took the prescribed bath — ^but didn't wash his face 
— and tumbled into bed. 

About midnight Elizabeth was aroused by an 
unusual sound. Startled into full wakefulness, she 
presently identified it as of human nature and pro- 
ceeding from Billy's room. Slipping into kimono 
and sandals, she ran down the hall to find her 
young brother groaning in pain. 

" I'm dying," he gasped. " I'm dying, Bess, I 
tell you. Oh! Oh! '' 

Elizabeth procured hot water, peppermint, 
brandy, none of which assuaged Billy's pangs, oc- 
curring with increasing frequency and violence. 

" Miss Bess, you'd better call the doctor," said 
the white-faced cook, who, with two other scared 
maids, had heard Billy's groans and come to offer 
help. 

Elizabeth herself thought so. This was no ordi- 
nary stomach-ache. Billy's face was white under 
its coat of tan, he was feverish and yet the cold 
perspiration stood on his freckled forehead. Be- 



BILLY THmXS HE IS DYIKG 127 

tween spasms of pain he fell exhausted on his pil- 
low. Elizabeth ran down to the telephone. 

" Dr. Utter is out on an important case," said the 
wife of their family practitioner. " You might try 
Dr. Lewis." 

Dr. Lewis was reported on his vacation and 
Elizabeth knew no other physician of reputation. 
She appealed to Central. 

" I'll call Dr. Jones," said the operator. " He's 
pretty good." 

Dr. Jones was out of town. " Have you tried 
that new man who has just come to Freeport?" 
inquired Central, moved from her usual imperson- 
ality by Elizabeth's need and her dilemma. " Dr. 
Russell? " 

" No," said Elizabeth. " I thought he hadn't be- 
gun to practise." 

" He'd surely come for an emergency and he's 
right next door to you. Shall I ring him? " 

" Yes," said Elizabeth, taking a sudden resolve. 
Dot might laugh at her and think her doing it pur- 
posely; Dr. Russell might consider her what he 
chose, but Billy was in terrible pain and she could 
get no one else to help her. 

The receiver at the other end was taken down 
almost immediately and a pleasant voice said: 
" This is Amory Russell." 

"I am Elizabeth Emerson, Dr. Russell, and 



128 JOURNEY'S END 

Billy, my brother, is dreadfully sick, rm alone 
with him, and our own doctor is out and I've tried 
for two others. I know you aren't practising yet, 
but will you " 

Dr. Kussell did not wait for her to finish the sen- 
tence. " I'U be with you in five minutes, Miss Em- 
erson," and back went the receiver. 

Elizabeth hung up hers and dropped into a hall 
chair, shivering and frightened. Even there she 
could hear the sounds of Billy's woe. 

Though her distress was keen and every moment 
seemed an eternity, she realized that Dr. Kussell 
arrived very quickly and yet was fully dressed, 
causing Elizabeth, as she admitted him, to become 
suddenly conscious of her blue silk negligee, her 
bare feet thrust into straw sandals, her hair in two 
heavy braids. But there was not the slightest indi- 
cation in Dr. Russell's face that her attire was in 
the least unusual. 

"What is it? " he asked at once. 

"Billy went on a picnic. I suppose he over- 
ate." 

" Probably too much picnic. Upstairs? " 

Elizabeth nodded and followed him. At the landr 
ing he turned in the direction of the one lighted 
room. The cook and maids withdrew, being less 
dressed than Elizabeth. 

Dr. Russell put down the little black case he car- 



BILLY THINKS HE IS DYING 129 

ried, gave one look at Billy, took off his coat, turned 
back his cuffs and went to work. So far as Eliza- 
beth was concerned, she might have been merely an 
automaton to do his bidding, but between them they 
spent a crowded hour. Elizabeth ceased to think 
of her attire, or rather her lack of it, for the doctor 
never withdrew his attention from Billy. And how 
sure and certain every motion was, how gentle his 
touch, how sympathetic his tone when Billy, worn 
out with pain, dissolved into helpless tears. 

" Buck up for a few minutes longer," he said 
cheerily. " You're better, Billy ; you're better, only 
you don't know it yet." 

At this, Billy smiled through sobs. The proph- 
ecy proved correct, for just as the first waking birds 
announced the summer dawn, Billy lay pale and 
exhausted, shaken from head to foot, but free from 
pain and from further cause for pain. 

"And now, Billy," said Dr. Eussell, leaning back 
in a relaxed attitude, " tell me what you ate on your 
picnic." 

" Cherries," said Billy, " clams, a lobster, cucum- 
bers, hot-dogs, lemon-pie, pickleg, watermelon, gin- 
ger-ale, — I forget the rest." 

" You've remembered quite enough ! " said Dr. 
Russell, looking at Elizabeth with a laugh in his 
eyes. The look was so friendly, so full of fun, and 
yet so utterly unconscious of anything unconven- 



130 JOUENEY'S EKD 

tional in the situation tliat she smiled back with 
equal frankness. 

" You remind me, Billy, of an occasion when 
three small boys picnicked on Clam Island and 
dined not wisely but too well. I recall that my 
aunt and uncle sat up with me most of the 
night." 

" I came pretty near croaking, didn't I? " asked 
Billy, luxuriating in his misery, now it was past. 

" Oh, I wasn't afraid of that," said Dr. Kussell 
calmly. ^^ I was only afraid you would tie yourself 
into such hard knots that I couldn't straighten you 
out." 

Billy laughed. " It must be funny to be a doctor 
and hear people squeal," he said. "And you were 
at the front in France, weren't you? I'll bet you 
had a bully good time." 

A rather odd expression crossed Dr. EusselPs 
face as he fitted a tiny bottle into its proper place 
in the black bag. 

" It wasn't my idea of a bully good time," he said 
rather gravely. " You haven't really been enjoying 
yourself these past two hours, have you? Well, in 
France, I sometimes worked for hours at a stretch, 
helping one boy after another, without a break be- 
tween, and every one of them was in mortal pain. 
It isn't easy to see people suffer, and the amount we 
could do to help was only a drop in the bucket. It 



BILLY THINKS HE IS DYING 131 

wasn't unconinion for a surgeon to keep on till lie 
dropped where lie stood." 

"Gee!'' said the astonished Billy. "I didn't 
know it was like that. Did you ever keel over? " 

" Once." 

" What did they do with you? " 

" Shoved me one side and went on working. No- 
body had time to waste on a man who merely 
fainted. Now, Billy, I want you to go to sleep. 
Keep covered and don't get up till your sister says 
you may." 

"I want you to come and see me again," an- 
nounced the invalid. 

" You don't need me," said the young doctor 
laughingly. "You'll be perfectly all right when 
you wake except for feeling weak. You're not go- 
ing to disintegrate while you sleep." 

" I know it, but I want you to come again. Eve, 
tell him he's to come." 

"Why, if it isn't necessary, we oughtn't to 
bother him," began Elizabeth, somewhat surprised 
by a sudden look the doctor divided between her 
and her brother. 

" Oh, I'll drop in for a friendly call, Billy, if that 
is all you want," he said pleasantly. " And when 
you are round again, I'll show you a specimen of 
what I consider a bully good time, a spin in the 
Whitewing, On a nice breezy day, with the right 



132 JOUKNEY'S END 

people aboard, that's the best fun I know. Don't 
bother to come down-stairs, Miss Emerson; 111 let 
myself out." 

"I was sorry to trouble you/' said Elizabeth, 
following him into the hall, "but I didn't know 
what to do. I'm immensely indebted to you." 

" You needn't be. Billy really needed help and 
you were entirely justified in calling a physician. 
I am glad to have been of service." 

"I hope the telephone didn't wake your 
aunt." 

"I don't think Aunt Eunice heard it. I have 
had an extension put on and when I go up at night, 
I arrange it so the bell rings only in my own room. 
She may possibly have heard me go out, but I don't 
think she did. I hope you will get some rest your- 
self now; you must need it. Good-night, or rather, 
good-morning." 

Amory returned to his own premises but did not 
at once enter the house. Instead he walked slowly 
on the brick paths among the flowers and the wak- 
ing birds, smoking and watching the dawn come 
over the harbor, gray and pearly at first, with ever- 
increasing color and loveliness, but his thoughts 
were not wholly on the sunrise. 

" Billy certainly called her Eve," he said to him- 
self. ^^ Was that name Eve or Phebe? Which of 
those two girls was the one in the booth? And am 



BILLY THUSTKS HE IS DYING 133 

I really so foolish as to think it matters either 
way? " 

When he went in, the house was still dark, for 
there the early dawn had not penetrated. As Amory 
passed the open door of the east parlor, his atten- 
tion was for a second arrested by two peculiar dots 
of light which seemed to focus themselves upon his 
consciousness. He stopped for another glance. 

"That's curious,'- he thought. "I must have 
looked at that dragon thousands of times after 
dark, but I had forgotten that its eyes were 
luminous. Strange, too, for that seems a thing that 
would stick in a youngster's mind. Odd that those 
old craftsmen knew how to produce an effect like 
the radium of to-day." 

A little later, Elizabeth, leaving the now sleeping 
Billy, heard the creak of cordage from the direction 
of the harbor. Crossing the hall to her father's 
room, she saw the Whitewing silently slipping out 
into the sunrise sea. 



CHAPTER XI 

IN WHICH AMORY BREAKS A GLASS SHADE 

WHEN Mr. Emerson returned from his trip 
to New York lie found Billy still wMte 
and subdued from his racking experi- 
ence, and Elizabeth yet feeling the effect of the 
strain. 

" It was mighty lucky you could get Dr. Russell," 
he observed. " Billy, you young idiot, didn't you 
know better than to eat all that truck at one 
sitting? " 

" I know better now," acknowledged Billy. '^ Dr. 
Russell is a brick, Dad. Let's have him always in- 
stead of that porcupine of an Utter." 

" I don't see why Dr. Utter deserves that epi- 
thet," began his father, but stopped at Elizabeth's 
laugh. Billy had precisely hit off the pompadour 
with which the fussy little doctor ornamented his 
head. 

" Pretty tough on you, Bess," Mr. Emerson went 
on. " I think I'll call on that young man and thank 
him for coming to your help when he really hasn't 
put out his shingle." 

"It's going out next week," volunteered Billy. 
" He said the alterations in the house were done, 

134 



AMOKY BEEAKS A GLASS SHADE 135 

and he might as well put it out, though he doesn't 
expect to be very busy. I guess he doesn't want to 
be/' Billy added, " because he said he meant to sail 
and loaf all he liked until September." 

The " shingle " in question went up in the shape 
of a modest brass plate on the gate of Journey's 
End and an equally small and inconspicuous one 
on its door. Neither met with Lydia's approval. 

"No one will see that sign, Amory," she an- 
nounced after an inspection. "Thee should have 
a large one like Dr. Morgan's, one which can be 
read half a block away." 

" The people who don't like my sign may go on 
to Dr. Morgan," said Amory, somewhat amused, 
but thinking it useless to explain that the sign in 
itself was intended to sift approaching pa- 
tients. 

"Well, we shall see," sighed Lydia. "Amory, 
will thee kindly come into the east parlor for a 
moment? I would like thee to lift from the mantel 
that glass case which stands over the dragon. I 
want to dust it." 

Amory complied. He had not been into the room 
since that early morning when he and Aunt Eunice 
spoke of the rugs. He carefully lifted the glass 
bell from above the beautifully carved ivory- 
monster and waited while Lydia dusted both with 
care. 



136 JOUKNEY'S END 

" Thee may replace the bell now/^ said Lydia, 
giving the dragon a last touch. 

Amory lifted the fragile glass, raised it above 
the figure and to his amazement and mortification 
dropped it on the hearthstone where it broke into 
innumerable fragments. 

"I could have done as well as that myself, 
Amory," said Lydia dryly. "Don't touch the 
pieces ; thee will cut thyself. There, thee's already 
done so." 

" Confound it ! " said Amory under his breath. 

" Thee'd better go seek a disinfectant," said 
Lydia. " I will fetch a brush and pan." 

" I know enough to do that," said Amory curtly, 
and then, in his office took himself to task. It was 
not a large room, but attractive and fitted with 
every appliance and convenience he could need. 
Mrs. Russell had insisted upon his using some of 
the fine rugs his uncle had collected with such 
pride. 

Amory attended to his cut finger and recovered 
his serenity during the process. "What is the 
matter with me? " he asked himself. " I can't ex- 
pect Lydia to consider me as anything but the boy 
she helped bring up, and why should I be irritated 
by it? " 

Having fastened the tiny bandage, he strolled 
into the room designed for his patients. Here, too. 



AMOEY BEEAKS A GLASS SHADE 137 

Mrs. EusselFs loving hand had been at work, and 
her unerring good taste showed in every article of 
furniture, in the simple muslin draperies and in the 
shimmery blue portieres exactly harmonizing 
with the rugs on the polished floors. There were 
books and magazines as well as a wonderful strip 
of Chinese embroidery like a living flame on the 
gray wall. It was precisely the kind of interior 
that an intending patient, following the modest 
brass plate, might expect to find. Amory gave it 
an approving glance. The morrow would find him 
keeping his first office hours in Freeport. 

" Is there another glass bell like the one in the 
east parlor? " he asked his aunt as he joined her 
in the sitting-room where a cheerful fire relieved 
the gloominess of a wet evening. " I lifted it off 
for Lydia to dust the dragon and managed to break 
it." 

"I do not think there is," replied Mrs. Eussell 
reflectively. " In an upper room is one which pro- 
tects a fine French clock, but it is of an entirely 
different shape. I doubt whether that bell can 
easily be replaced, especially since the war. But 
it is of no consequence, Amory, for the dragon can 
go in some glass-fronted cabinet, and a less fragile 
article be placed where it stands." 

" I'm not usually such a butter-fingers," observed 
her nephew, settling into a big wicker chair. 



138 JOUKNEY'S END 

" Tliee is not indeed. Even as a little boy thy 
hands were deft and sure. Did thee not care for 
that entertaiQnient Mrs. Selby gives to-night for her 
young people? Thee vras invited, I know." 

" I didn't feel like going, Aunt Eunice." 

" Elizabeth seemed to anticipate great pleasure. 
She telephoned me that she should wear a rose- 
colored frock, but because of the storm, could not 
show herself as she sometimes does. Thee mustn't 
deny thyself any youthful pleasure thee cares for, 
Amory. I have spent many evenings alone and can 
do so still." 

" I have been out a good deal, thee knows, but 
somehow the young people are younger than they 
used to be," said Amory, laughing a little. *^ Life 
seems more serious to me." 

" Thee has been through much that has of neces- 
sity made thee realize that," said his aunt, looking 
at him lovingly. "And of course Freeport is 
changing. There are many people here especially 
during the summer whom I know only by name. 
But thee has received many invitations since thy 
return home." 

" More than I care to accept," said Amory, and 
relapsed into silence. Even had he not been a 
Kussell of old Freeport where the Kussell name 
held high honor, any door would have been open 
to so handsome and desirable a youth. The newly- 



AMOKY BREAKS A GLASS SHADE 139 

arrived summer aristocracy hastened to include 
Mm in every festivity. Invitations poured upon 
him and the fact that he accepted few, and those 
chiefly from the families whom he had always 
known, made his presence a sort of triumph for any 
hostess. Of course, Mrs. Russell herself never went 
to formal entertainments of any kind, had not done 
so since her husband's death, but young Dr. Russell 
was under no such obligation and yet showed him- 
self almost indifferently exclusive in his accept- 
ances. 

Mrs. Jardine had even resorted to the telephone 
in her exasperation on receiving a courteous re- 
fusal to an elaborate dinner at which Doris Jardine 
was expected to make a serious impression. She 
was prepared to expostulate, to bear down any 
excuse which a young man pressed to a corner over 
a wire could make, but Mrs. Jardine was silenced 
when a pleasant voice politely informed her that 
he was dining with the Averys, in a manner of such 
finality that she expressed regret and hung up the 
receiver without having pinned him down to a defi- 
nite date, as she firmly intended to do. That any 
one could prefer a dinner with the Averys to one 
with her was more than Mrs. Jardine could com- 
prehend. True, they were of the old blue-blooded 
Friends of Freeport, but there were no young peo- 
ple in the family now that Miriam was married and 



140 JOURNEY'S END 

Putnam was dead, and no inducement, at least 
from Mrs. Jardine's point of view. For the time 
being she acknowledged herself worsted but re- 
solved that as soon as Dr. Russell announced him- 
self ready for practice Doris should consult him 
about her delicate digestion. 

"Thee seems tired to-night, Amory," said his 
aunt after a pause. " I think thee feels a little 
strain now that thee is about to begin work in 
Freeport. That is but natural. Thee has seen so 
many sick people already that it will not be hard 
when the time comes." 

" I don't dread it in the least and I hope nothing 
will come up that I cannot handle. I was merely 
wondering whether any difficulty will arise be- 
cause it is my native town. While some may come 
to me just because of that, others will think a Free- 
port boy can't possibly be as skilful as an outsider. 
Thee knows all my patients up to this time have 
been strangers." 

" I can understand that it may be easier to pre- 
scribe when thee has no personal connection with 
thy patient, but I think many will come to thee 
purely because thee is Amory Russell." 

" What I should like to do," said Amory, gazing 
thoughtfully into the fire, " not at once of course, 
but eventually, is to specialize with children. I 
always got on with the kids in the hospitals and 



AMORY BREAKS A GLASS SHADE 141 

they are so patient and so appreciative and loving, 
that they appeal to me quite as much as the grown 
people. I couldn't help growing fond of some of 
the little things in the orthopedic ward, tiny chaps 
with hip disease and tubercular spines. Work with 
them is so worth while." 

" And why should thee not? " asked his aunt, lay- 
ing down her sewing to look at him. " That seems 
to me a beautiful purpose. To relieve the suffering 
of the little ones is certainly a Christ-like ambi- 
tion." 

Amory made no reply, but his face grew less 
weary and became merely serious. Presently he 
rose and went to one of the bookcases. 

" Does thee feel like reading aloud, Aunt 
Eunice? " he asked as he returned with a volume 
in a shabby leather binding. " Will thee read me 
Guinevere? I shall sit on the rug with my head 
against thy knee and it will be as though a dozen 
years were taken from my age." 

" I remember how thee used to like that poem 
and it seemed to me odd, for there were others of 
the Idylls I would have thought to hold more ap- 
peal for a boy. Certainly I will read it, Amory; 
bring thy cushion and sit as thee chooses. It is 
curious, but during thy absence Elizabeth took a 
fancy that I should read to her and recalling how 
thee liked to hear me, I yielded." 



142 JOUKNEY'S END 

" Wliat did thee read? " asked Amory with some 
interest. 

" It chanced that I was reading for my own edi- 
fication the Trojan Women of Euripides. I had 
not read it for years and I cannot tell thee, Amory, 
what an impression that re-reading produced upon 
me. There, in grand and poignant language dating 
long before Christ, were line upon line on the 
wrongs and sorrows of war that depicted absolutely 
the sufferings of modern France and Belgium. It 
is true that the great literature of the world is that 
which holds a universal appeal, and perhaps with- 
out it, no work can endure. I read the Trojan 
Women to Elizabeth and she wept as she listened. 
Then, because it had stirred the deeps in us both, 
we turned to more modern poetry. I suggested 
the Idylls^ but Elizabeth would have none of them. 
She said she hated Arthur — ^he was such a prig! 
Her point of view, though unusual, seemed interest- 
ing to me, for she said she could never love a man 
who was too perfect to be human, and that Arthur 
should have forgiven Guinevere in her great peni- 
tence." 

"Why, he did," said Amory wonderingly. "It 
is of his forgiveness that we are going to read." 

" But Elizabeth said it was not true forgiveness 
when he would not even touch her lest he sully 
himself, — merely held his hands above her in fare- 



AMOKY BEEAKS A GLASS SHADE 143 

well blessing. I believe there is something in her 
criticism; Arthur might have been greater had he 
been more loving and human. But we did not read 
the Idylls, We read the Burial of a Queen and cer- 
tain very recent poets. There, dear, is thee 
settled? " 

The fire snapped before Amory's thoughtful eyes 
and outside poured a cold summer rain, while 
Eunice EusselFs musical voice breathed action into 
the figures of the familiar poem. Even restless 
Caroline was always willing to listen when Aunt 
Eunice read aloud, and Amory's memory was stored 
with lines, stanzas, whole poems learned simply 
through the spell of her voice. To-night every word 
fell upon his ear with healing calm, with that keen 
pleasure which only the repetition of a thing dear 
to one's youth can bestow. Perhaps for the first 
time Amory consciously realized how wise and 
good a thing his aunt had done for him when she 
taught him to love the enduring beauty of fine 
poetry. 

Guinevere drew to its close : 

''Ah, my God, 
"What might I not have made of thy fair world, 
Had I but loved thy highest creature here ? 
It was my duty to have loved the highest ; 
It surely was my profit had I known : 
It would have been my pleasure had I seen. 
We needs must love the highest when we see it." 



144 JOUKNEY'S END 

A coal snapped from the fire and Amory threw 
it back. His mind lingered over those words and 
he lost a little until the close : " To where beyond 
these voices there is peace." 

Against the shuttered panes blew wind and rain 
but the fire-lit room in Journey's End seemed the 
personification of serenity, Aunt Eunice the very 
embodiment of its spirit. 



CHAPTER Xn 

IN WHICH LYDIA MEETS WITH MISFORTUNE AND 
AMORY PLANS A PICNIC 

NEXT morning dawned clear and sunny, 
the whole rain-washed world refreshed 
and rejuvenated in crisp cool air and sky 
and sea of equal blueness. Amory over his setting- 
up exercises found himself planning an hour for 
the Whitemng. 

His toilet was yet at an early stage when he 
heard a knock on his door and his aunt's voice 
speaking his name. 

" I'm up, Aunt Eunice," he called from the bath- 
room. " Isn't it a ripping morning? " 

"I want thee, Amory," said Mrs. Russell. 
" Lydia has slipped on the polished floor and hurt 
her wrist and hand. Come as soon as thee is pre- 
sentable ; do not stop to shave nor to dress fully, for 
she is in great pain." 

" I'll come in one moment," Amory replied. 

He found Lydia seated on the couch in the sitting- 
room, her face white and her right arm laid upon 
a pillow placed on her knee. 

145 



146 JOUENEY'S END 

" Well, Lydia, what has thee been doing? " asked 
Amory, who appeared in shirt and trousers, with 
hair wet and rumpled. 

"After walking on the polished iloors of Jour- 
ney's End these many years, I slipped on a rug. 
Thee can try thy skill at curing me." 

Amory was touching the injured arm with 
deft, gentle fingers. It was already badly swol- 
len. 

" I have at least sprained my wrist," said Lydia 
watching him. 

" More than that ; thee has broken thy little 
finger." 

At this statement Lydia's disgust knew no 
bounds. 

" I find it hard to believe thee, Amory Russell. 
If thee is merely up to thy old tricks of teasing, 
thee will find me still capable of boxing thy ears." 

Amory laughed at her indignation. " I don't 
blame thee for suspecting me, Lydia, but thee'll 
have to believe me. Tough lines for such a trivial 
slip. Aunt Eunice, is there any ice? " 

"Plenty, dear," said Mrs. Russell, who stood 
looking anxiously on. 

Lydia sat in grim ! .ence while Amory visited 
the refrigerator and gave the injured wrist and 
hand careful treatment. 

" A simple remedy," she observed, " and yet it is 



LYDIA MEETS WITH MISFORTUNE 147 

lessening the pain. Thee may be right about my 
finger, Amory; something is not as it was." 

" It really is broken, Lydia, and I cannot set it 
until the swelling is reduced. Now keep thy whole 
forearm immersed in this basin while I bring a 
splint and bandage." 

^^ This is a pretty to-do, Eunice Russell," sighed 
Lydia when her hand, in neat white folds, reposed 
in a sling. " Here am I helpless, and preserving- 
time upon us. Amory, this was really thy fault, 
for had thee not broken the glass bell last night, I 
should not have broken my finger this morning. I 
recalled that the ivory dragon was left exposed to 
the dust and went to shut it into a cabinet. Just 
as I stepped on the rug before the mantel it slipped 
under my foot and I fell. How will thee manage, 
Eunice? " 

" We shaU get on somehow," said Mrs. Russell, 
smoothing back the gray hair of the faithful old 
servant. " Bertha will be here soon, thee knows, 
and with her the girl Bell, whom I have engaged 
for Amory's service. I have found the negroes ever 
kind-hearted when one is in need, and they will 
prove no exception. Thee must not worry, Lydia. 
The only thing that conce is me is thy pain." 

Lydia wiped away a tear. " How long must I 
keep my arm thus? " she asked of Amory. 

" Thee may not need the sling for long, but thee 



148 JOUKNEY'S END 

must keep thy hand in splints for perhaps three 
weeks." 

" The jam ! " sighed Lydia, " and the peas and 
cherries ready to can." 

" Thee can direct Bertha and I have not lost my 
skill at such arts," said Mrs. Russell soothingly. 

" What must be must be," sighed Lydia, " but I 
shall not stay to add to thy cares, Eunice Russell. 
If I cannot be of help, at least I will not hinder, 
and I will not have thee waiting on me. I can go 
to my sister's." 

" For many years thy hands have served me and 
mine, Lydia. Do not begrudge me the slight return 
of helping thee. There, Amory has brought thee 
some coffee." 

" Drink and cheer up," said Amory. " Aunt 
Eunice and I can get on and thee can bet thy boots, 
Lydia, that I won't let her overdo. We will take 
our meals at the Freeport Inn if Bertha and Bell 
both desert us. Thee, too, Lydia. As for the peas 
and cherries, why can't I cook 'em and stick 'em 
into jars? Thee should see me bottle germs in a 
laboratory." 

" Nevertheless I shouldn't like to let thee loose 
in my kitchen," said Lydia with a suspicion of a 
smile. "But I thank thee for thy help, Amory. 
Eunice, breakfast was ready for serving when I 
met with my accident." 



LYDIA MEETS WITH MISFOKTUNE 149 

Amory finished dressing and came down just as 
the postman brought the early mail. Among the 
letters was one from his sister which he thrust un- 
opened into a pocket. Caroline's letters were liable 
to be exotic both in contents and in language and 
he usually read them in private before sharing with 
his aunt. Yet, to do Caroline justice, when she 
wrote to Mrs. Russell directly, she did so with con- 
sideration. 

In the course of the morning, Amory read the 
letter. The first part was a brief summary of en- 
gagements that had occupied Caroline for a fort- 
night past and then came something which her 
brother read with more attention. 

"We have had the most entrancing week-end 
guest, Yin Luk of the Chinese Legation. Imagine 
a dapper little cherub five feet tall with a face as 
smooth as a baby's and slanting black eyes. His 
taste in clothes was perfect and I fell in love with 
him at once." 

Amory's lip curled slightly but he was used to 
Caroline's extravagant statements and read on. 

" Yin reciprocated and we sat on the stairs dur- 
ing three dances. Chinese love-making is interest- 
ing, for Orientals are so subtle. Yin could give 
young America points — ^he gave me some. He 
speaks French better than English and we had no 
dif8.culty in understanding each other. 



150 JOUENEY'S END 

" Sunday morning everybody was playing bridge 
and I chanced to have on that jade pendant Aunt 
Eunice gave me. When my little Chinaman saw it, 
his eyes stuck out of his head and he became so 
excited that he could only stutter. He begged 
me to let him examine it. 

" Well, Amory, as nearly as I could understand, 
that pendant is something unique. It is as old as 
creation to begin with and it appears that it was 
made by a Chinese magician to subdue an evil spirit 
which he had previously created. How Yin got 
all this information I can't tell, but he reeled it off 
glibly when he once got his breath. It seems that 
it was rather a fad with the wizards of Egypt and 
the orient to call up a demon and then tame it by 
making an amulet to keep it under control. Quaint 
diversion, n'est-ce pas? Then the old sorcerers 
would pass on to their reward and leave behind 
them the evil they had created, very likely without 
telling anybody about the controlling charm. 

" According to Yin, my amulet is one of these, 
and somewhere in the world is the spirit it bosses. 
I can imagine just how your lip is curling, Amory. 
It's a bad habit and unbecoming as well. 

" Yin got into such a state that I tried to calm 
him by telling him Journey's End was full of 
oriental plunder, but that sent Mm into a condition 
where he could speak only Chinese. I held his hand 



LYDIA MEETS WITH MISFORTUNE 151 

and fanned him and finally dismissed him happy 
with a letter of introduction to you. Show him 
all the stuff like a dear boy; he'll probably arrive 
on the heels of this letter or maybe before it. I've 
told him you're not a bit like me, much better-look- 
ing and not at all frivolous and that he mustn't 
shock you. 

"How's the practice? Have you met her yet 
and doesn't she part her hair in the middle? Love 
to dear Aunt Eunice and don't disapprove of me 
any more than you can help. 

" Caeol.'^ 

Amory read this epistle twice and Caroline's 
warning about his lip was needed. Not until mid- 
afternoon did he speak of the letter to his aunt, 
whom he found, as usual in pleasant weather, upon 
the terrace. 

" Dear, I have been waiting anxiously," she be- 
gan, her cheeks flushed with excitement. "We 
have listened eagerly to the sound of the bell, and 
after admitting each patient, Bell has returned to 
tell me. Is thee not pleased to have six on thy first 
day? " 

" A good beginning, Aunt Eunice," said Amory 
smiling, "very good indeed. And that does not 
include Lydia." 

" Lydia has gone to her sister. I could do noth- 



152 JOURNEY'S END 

ing with her; she said she would not stay to be 
dependent on my help and she would accept no aid 
from either Bertha or Bell. Her thought was 
wholly for me, but I am sorry she has gone." 

" But I want to keep an eye on her hand," said 
Amory. 

" She realized that and said she should come 
daily after breakfast to direct the household mat- 
ters, but she would not remain to need help about 
her dressing and eating. Were thy patients in- 
teresting? " 

"Mumps," said Amory concisely; "a boy with 
an infected finger which should have had attention 
before; a lady with a tiny cyst to be removed from 
her eyelid; a burned hand, a poor working-woman 
with gall-stones and six small children; a little 
chap with a twisted knee." 

" The poor woman " began his aunt. 

"Amory, thee must let me help those who need 
financial assistance." 

" She will have to go to Boston for an operation 
and I can arrange for a free bed without cost to 
her. I knew thee would hope for a new field for 
thy charities." 

" I have always thought fruitful channels would 
be opened to me should thee practise where I could 
know of thy patients. Robert so willingly assisted 
the poor and I try to do likewise. During the war 



LYDIA MEETS WITH MISFOETUJSTE 163 

John Howland remonstrated witli me gently, fear- 
ing that I did harm by indiscriminate giving. I 
was grieved when he convinced me that I had in 
truth given to impostors masquerading in the name 
of a good cause, so I submitted to his courteously 
expressed desire that I should give no large sums 
without first consulting him. Then the poor 
woman will be cared for? What of the child with 
the twisted knee? " 

"His was the most interesting case. They are 
not poor people and his weakness is curable if his 
mother will do her part in corrective gymnastics 
and strict obedience to orders. I hope she has back- 
bone enough to do it. He was a dear little fellow 
and I don't want him lame for life. I had a letter 
from Caroline, Aunt Eunice. She was swamped 
with company as usual, but wrote to say she had 
given a letter of introduction to some young 
Chinese official connected with the Legation. She 
thought he would be interested in our oriental 
things. Her letter was dated three days ago, so 
he may turn up any time." 

"He will be welcome," said Mrs. Kussell se- 
renely. "I have at different times entertained a 
number of Chinese gentlemen and I always found 
them interesting and courteous guests. Thee is 
looking longingly at the harbor and no wonder. 
The afternoon is too pretty to spend on shore." 



154 JOUKKEY'S END 

" I know it/^ said Amory. " I want to set foot 
on Clam Island again. Would tliee care to sail 
so far? '' 

" Not so far as that. While I enjoy the White- 
loing, I tire more quickly than in the past. Why 
does thee not ask Phebe to go with thee 
again? " 

" Phebe doesn't really like sailing ; she only 
thinks she does." 

" Why, she seemed most enthusiastic when thee 
took her the other day/' commented Mrs. Russell, 
genuinely surprised at this statement. "Her 
pleasure appeared sincere." 

Amory smiled to himself. Phebe had liked the 
invitation and would doubtless jump at the chance 
to go again, but somehow she had not fitted into his 
morning. 

" Phebe hasn't a light foot in a boat," he said 
lazily. " She fell over the centreboard case and 
became mixed in ropes at critical moments and 
needed more assistance than I could well give her. 
Oh, no, she was not at all seasick, not even uncom- 
fortable. She thought the wind in the cordage 
made a dismal wail and that jelly-fish were messy 
animals and cluttered up the waves." 

" Thee cannot expect every one to enjoy sailing 
as thee does," said his aunt, smiling in spite of a 
sudden and secret disappointment. " Thee comes 



LYDIA MEETS WITH MISFOKTUISrE 165 

of the old seafaring Russells and the call is in thy 
blood/' 

" Just because I enjoy it so much I know when 
others do not. Phebe may be in her element on 
shore, but she does not belong in a boat." 

" I remember how thee would always classify 
people as ^ belonging ' or not, according as thee 
found them congenial. I am sorry Phebe failed to 
meet thy requirements." 

" Why, does thee wish me to take her again? " 
asked Amory so quickly that Mrs. Russell realized 
his suspicion. 

" Not at all, dear," she replied, keeping her gaze 
on her needlework. " I was merely suggesting a 
companion, since I do not feel equal to so long 
a sail. But perhaps thee has some one in 
mind." 

" I have," said her nephew promptly and yet 
watching her with a quizzical smile. " The day 
when I took thee and Elizabeth Emerson, she truly 
enjoyed herself. She looked up at the rigging and 
heard the song; her eyes widened with pleasure 
when I sailed close to the wind, as I purposely did, 
and she didn't squeal when the lee gunwale dipped 
under. She saw how wonderful are the colors in a 
school of jelly-fish and said they looked like a rain- 
bow dissolved in the sea. She lifted one or two 
out on the palm of her hand and looked at them 



156 JOUKNEY'S EKD 

thoughtfully, and when she put them back, it was 
with consideration lest they be hurt by the current 
and the motion of the boat. Does thee think she 
would consider me very fresh if I telephone and 
ask her to go to Clam with me? " 

" No, dear," said Mrs. Kussell, after a pause so 
slight that Amory could not have detected it had 
he been watching less closely. " Elizabeth would 
not think thee presuming and thee would find her a 
pleasant comrade." 

" Thee has used the very word that means all the 
difference," said Amory laughingly. " Phebe was 
well enough as a companion, but not as a comrade. 
Perhaps I am mistaken in Miss Emerson — I 
haven't seen much of her, — ^but in every encounter 
so far she has fitted into the situation, whatever it 
was. I have seen her twice here in the garden, 
where she seemed a part of it, and once by her 
brother's bedside, where she was self-effacing and 
helpful, and that afternoon on the boat. I am in- 
clined to think she would like the rain drumming 
on the canvas and fog creeping in like a ghost ; she 
might even pass the supreme test for a child of the 
sea, — ^to get thoroughly wet and horribly dirty and 
ravenously hungry and yet have a glorious good 
time. And I want to buy some lobsters and cook 
'em on the rocks and not come home till the moon 
rises. Will Elizabeth Emerson stand for all that 



LYDIA MEETS WITH MISFOKTUNE 157 

and does thee think it will be safe for us to do it 
unchaperoned? '' he ended wickedly. 

"Very safe/^ agreed his aunt unexpectedly. 
"I, too, observed Elizabeth the other day and I 
saw that she was more interested in thy boat than 
in thee." 

Amory laughed in delight. " Oh, Aunt Eunice ! '' 
he exclaimed. " Thee is quite right — she was. 

" But this afternoon," he added to himself, " she 
is going to be interested in both." 

Mrs. Russell may have guessed the thought he 
did not speak, but was too wise to make any com- 
ment or to betray the vague uneasiness she felt. 
She laid aside her sewing. 

" Go telephone Elizabeth and be sure to tell her 
to take a heavy wrap, for the wind is fresh. Thee 
must not sup on lobsters alone ; I will bid Bertha 
cut thee some sandwiches." 

"Plain bread and butter, please, and some of 
those fat little stuffed melon pickles with their hats 
stuck on with straws." 

" Mangoes, thee means? I will see whether Lydia 
has any on hand." 

Mrs. Russell went into the house and after a 
moment Amory followed. The smile yet lingered 
about his lips as he took down the telephone re- 
ceiver. 



CHAPTER Xm 

IN WHICH AMORY AND ELIZABETH GO SAILING AND 
SOMETHING MYSTERIOUS HAPPENS 

CLAM ISLAND marked the farthest bound- 
ary of Freeport harbor. On the side to- 
ward the town two long sandy points ran 
out, enclosing a sheltered inlet where a boat might 
safely be left. On the seaward side the formation 
was entirely different and the Atlantic rollers broke 
on a rocky shore. Parties often picnicked on Clam, 
but no one camped over-night, for there was no 
water. Had it not been for this defect, some enter- 
prising man might have secured the little island for 
his summer home, since in situation it was ideal. 

" I believe we can make Green Island on a single 
tack," said Amory, as the Whitewing dropped her 
mooring and moved seaward in stately beauty, this 
time with a tender trailing behind. " Good-bye, 
Aunt Eunice," he called. " Don't worry if we get 
becalmed." 

" Not that there is any danger of this wind drop- 
ping," he added, as Elizabeth waved her handker- 
chief to the slender gray figure on the sea-wall of 
Journey's End, "but I never go sailing without 

158 



SOMETHHSTG MYSTEEIOUS HAPPElSrS 159 

thinking of a scrape Tom Howland and I got into 
once. Tom had an uncle who was an Episcopal 
bishop, and he came to conduct a funeral here in 
Freeport. He arrived the night before and in the 
morning Tom and I took him sailing and we went 
out beyond Clam and were becalmed." 

Elizabeth was smiling sympathetically at the fun 
in her companion's voice and eyes. "What hap- 
pened? " she asked. 

"Nothing. That was the point. We had left 
the tender at the mooring and there was nothing 
our ecclesiastical guest could do. He didn't ex- 
actly hold Tom and me to account for his predica- 
ment, but we received the impression that he had 
seen all he wished of us for some time to come. Oh, 
he took it pretty well on the whole, but they had to 
delay the funeral. The Howlands realized what 
had probably happened and sent a launch after us, 
so he arrived about three-quarters of an hour late. 
I fancy his cassock concealed some deficiencies of 
toilet." 

" It must have been fun to be a boy in Freeport," 
said Elizabeth, who was feeling perfectly at home 
with Dr. Russell. There was a quiet friendliness 
in his manner which took everything for granted 
and made it seem as though they had known each 
other a long time. There was a certain direct sim- 
plicity as well, a quality she had already appreci- 



160 JOURNEY'S END 

ated in Aunt Eunice. She liked, too, the smile that 
kept flashing into his gray eyes even when his lips 
were grave. She had seen him working with cheery 
patience over the pain-stricken Billy; this was a 
different but equally attractive phase, 

" It was fun," said Amory. " I think no boy ever 
had a better time than I did, growing up here with 
the sea and the dunes to play with." 

He had arranged the sheet and tiller to his satis- 
faction and, as he spoke, glanced critically at the 
sails. 

" Just enough wind to make the jib count," he 
commented, and then drew from his pocket his ciga- 
rette case. " May I? " he asked, with a smile. 

" Of course. I don't object anyway and I am sit- 
ting to windward." Elizabeth spoke seriously but 
smiled as he went on. 

" You are remembering your impertinent remark 
when we met in the garden and you knew me and 
wouldn't tell me who you were. I will be imperti- 
nent in return. Won't you join me? " 

" No, thanks," said Elizabeth, rather stiffly. 

Amory bit his lip to keep from laughing. Eliza- 
beth had surely learned her lesson. 

" I used to do it," she admitted frankly, " but I 
shocked your Aunt Eunice once, and somehow she 
cured me of wanting to smoke. Really, doesn't she 
mind your doing it? " 



SOMETHING MYSTEEIOUS HAPPENS 161 

" No/' said Amory, liking her all the better for 
this acknowledgment. " She doesn't object, but 
she wouldn't like a girl to smoke. She and Uncle 
Eobert were always broad-minded. They permit- 
ted me to do most of the things I wanted when 
I was growing up. I was allowed to go to 
parties and to dances and to do practically 
everything the other boys did except play cards. 
Of course, I did that when I went away to school," 
he added with a twinkle. "When I was fifteen 
Uncle gave me the WhitewingJ' 

Amory threw one knee over the tiller while ke 
lighted his cigarette. 

"That smells awfully good," Elizabeth com' 
mented abruptly. "I love the odor of nice to- 
bacco." 

His eyes brimming with amusement, Amory 
again proffered her his case. 

" You needn't tempt me," she said, laughing. " I 
promised I wouldn't." 

" Then far be it from me to tempt you. I will 
even throw mine overboard if you say the 
word." 

" I'm not so silly. Go on — you started to tell me 
about your boat." 

"Oh," said Amory. "Yes — ^the Whiteuoing, 
Nobody ever had more fun with a boat than Tom 
and Putnam Avery and I. Perhaps you know they 



162 JOURNEY'S END 

didn't come back from France? It's odd, but sev- 
eral times when I have been sailing alone, especially 
the first time I went, and that early morning when 
I sailed into the sunrise after Billy was sick, — on 
both those occasions I felt so strongly that they 
were with me. The sense of their presence was so 
intense that it seemed as though I must see them 
the next minute. And the wonderful part was that 
both were so happy that they made me feel so too. 
It was as though Put said in so many words: 
^ Nothing ails us, brother ; joyous souls are we.' I 
understood that he and Tom were radiantly alive 
and still close to me in sympathy and I came back 
knowing that I should never feel lonely or sad in 
the Whitewing/^ 

" That was a lovely experience," said Elizabeth 
softly. "Aunt Eunice has told me how you three 
grew up together." 

" Yes," said Amory, and for a time was silent, a 
little amazed at the sudden impulse which had led 
him to make so intimate a confidence to one whom 
he knew so slightly. 

Elizabeth was silent also. The Whitewing was 
running before a breeze which keeled her over till 
the water swept her gunwale. One wave had even 
slapped over and Amory eased her up a bit. Free- 
port had dropped behind and they seemed alone in 
a wide expanse of blue. It was too early for the 



SOMETHING MYSTERIOUS HAPPENS 163 

fishing-boats to be making harbor; too late for 
lobster-men. 

Elizabeth sat with happy eyes watching the 
waves, her hair blown forward by the following 
wind. Hers was not the sort of hair which looks 
untidy when it straggles, for the salt air curled it 
slightly into clinging tendrils. She sat like a little 
child with one foot tucked under her and the other 
swinging. 

"Do you know. Miss Emerson," said her com- 
panion after the pause, " I still feel so sure that I 
met you before coming to Freeport. Did you by 
any chance happen to be in Providence during June 
and did you attend a Venetian carnival some 
church was giving for the Red Cross? " 

Elizabeth turned her head as though it had been 
moved mechanically. " Then it was you ! '' she ex- 
claimed irrelevantly. 

"Now you are one ahead of me," announced 
Amory, "unless you mean exactly what I do, 
the Last of the D'Estes and the black-draped 
booth." 

Her lips slightly parted, Elizabeth sat staring at 
him. 

"It was you who came into the booth when 
Jim Chadwick and I were having our palms 
read? " 

" Thinking it a public place, I entered and find- 



164 JOUENEY'S END 

ing two absolute strangers present I did not appre- 
ciate my actual rudeness in remaining." 

" You heard what the palmist said to me? " de- 
manded Elizabeth. 

" Yes," said Amory. " She gave you a pretty 
good character on the whole! But did you place 
any faith in the prophetic part of it? " 

" Well, no. At least none of it has happened yet. 
What she said about the past and about me may 
have been true, but nothing seems to be doing as to 
the future." 

" Do you know anything about the palmist her- 
self? " 

" Yes. The Chadwicks knew about her. I was 
staying with them at Bristol and we motored up for 
that entertainment. They say she really does have 
some strange power of mind-reading or something 
like that. I forget her name, but her husband is 
rather an important man in Providence. She isn't 
a professional and she never reads palms except for 
charity. I heard that lots of the things she fore- 
tells do happen, and it rather dismays her. Did 
she tell you anything that has come true? I didn't 
hear what she said to you." 

" She told me immediately that I was a doctor, 
and I am puzzled to understand how she guessed. 
I am quite sure there was no odor of disinfectant 
from which she might have deduced it. That cer- 



SOMETHING MYSTEKIOUS HAPPENS 165 

tainly was a straight hit. She gave me some advice, 
which I do not believe I have followed, and warned 
me of an indefinite danger." 

Amory hesitated. He did not know his com- 
panion sufficiently well to tell her the whole of that 
prophecy. At present he was satisfied to settle the 
identity of the girl. 

" Of course it was you," he said. " I have been 
blind not to recognize you before, but evening dress 
and artificial light make a difference. You wore a 
blue gown trimmed with beaded embroidery and 
your companion called you Eve. I noticed that 
Billy used that name." 

" Yes, from my initials, Elizabeth Vernon Emer- 
son. My dress was blue. But how odd that was ! 
We were two perfect strangers and only caught a 
glimpse of each other, yet it was enough to give us 
both a sense of familiarity when we met again." 

" In a different town, under different circum- 
stances. But I wasn't sure. At first I thought it 
was Phebe Ames, for her own home is in Providence 
and she said she had been helping with an enter- 
tainment her church had just given." 

" But don't you know her well? " asked Elizabeth 
in surprise. 

" We knew each other as children, but that was 
all. The other day Phebe and her grandmother 
came to call on Aunt Eunice and I asked Phebe 



1^6 JOURNEY'S END 

about the carnival and ascertained that she had not 
visited the palmist. No, she had grown out of my 
recollection until we saw each other at First Day 
meeting." 

" I have never attended a Friends' meeting," ob- 
served Elizabeth. "Aunt Eunice has invited me, 
but I was afraid to come." 

" What is there to fear? The only danger is of 
being bored because nothing happens. To be sure 
there are sometimes compensations." 

He laughed and told her the story of Sarah 
Swain. "Had I been younger I should have let 
that caterpillar alone and thereby got myself into 
disgrace. Thanks to Phebe, who saw the danger, 
Sarah never knew what she escaped. We have 
made Green Island as I hoped on a single tack. I 
shall have to come about now." 

Elizabeth dived under the boom as it swung 
across and presently they were moving much more 
slowly on another tack, headed now for Clam. 

"Why didn't you take the palmist's advice?" 
she asked rather saucily. " Didn't you put any 
faith in it? " 

Her companion smiled but made no immediate 
reply. 

" Don't tell me if I have no business to know," 
said Elizabeth, noticing the pause. 

" I was just wondering how to put it into words," 



SOMETHING MYSTERIOUS HAPPENS 167 

began Amory, liking her for this straightforward 
speech. ^^ No, I didn't have any especial faith in it. 
The advice she gave me was to make no important 
decision without thinking three times and consult- 
ing my head as well as my heart. I have made a 
very important decision, to stay in Freeport rather 
than accept a hospital position. I did what I 
thought right, but it was wholly the judgment of 
my heart." 

" Because Aunt Eunice needs you? " asked Eliza- 
beth. She was looking directly at him and her gaze 
was as simple and clear as that of a child. 

" I will tell you something no one else must know, 
Miss Emerson,' ' said Amory as simply. " I do not 
think Aunt Eunice has many years to live. I owe 
her a great deal and it seems my duty to stay in 
Freeport." 

" Of course it is," agreed Elizabeth. Her tone 
indicated that there could be no possible alterna- 
tive and Amory gave her a keen glance. 

Neither of them spoke for a time and Clam drew 
steadily nearer. The shadows were becoming 
longer and the light more level. Presently the 
WMtewing headed into the little bay and Amory 
dropped his anchor. 

" Let us hope our anchor will not drag," he said 
as he lowered the sail. " This needn't be furled, but 
I will make fast the jib. 



168 JOURNEY'S END 

" Now for the other side of Clam/' he went on as 
he pulled the tender up the beach and Elizabeth 
skipped out without assistance. " There is one 
crevice made purposely to boil lobsters." 

Elizabeth took the basket of lunch while Amory 
carried the thermos bottles and the lobsters in an 
iron kettle. 

"Oh, what a wonderful place!" she sighed as 
they topped the slight crest of the small island and 
came out on a wide view of ocean. Several schooners 
were coasting from Maine and just above the hori- 
zon a line of smoke showed where a steamer lay 
hull down. Elizabeth dropped the basket to raise 
her arms in a sort of invocation. 

" You would like the dunes," said Amory, notic- 
ing it. 

'^Like them? I love them! I can spend whole 
days on them." 

"Alone?" asked Amory. 

" Preferably alone ! " declared Elizabeth, looking 
at him with a laugh. Her companion laughed back 
and held out a hand with an engaging gesture of 
comradeship. 

" ' We be of one blood, ye and I ! ' " he quoted as 
she gave him hers. "The dunes call me just as 
does the sea. Sometime I will show you a part not 
often visited. Now the first thing is some drift- 
wood.'* 



SOMETHING MYSTEEIOUS HAPPENS 169 

Elizabetli gathered wood happily and watched 
while Amory built a small fire in the cleft of two 
rocks, placing above it a kettle of water. Then 
they tended the fire, no small task, for like all 
watched pots theirs took long to boil. 

" I am expecting you to eat two lobsters," said 
Amory, plunging them in. 

"Are you drumming up practice? " asked Eliza- 
beth merrily. " That sounds suspiciously like it." 

" No, I'll warrant the digestibility of my lobsters 
and Aunt Eunice has edited the rest of the 
lunch." 

" I never ate any so delicious," admitted Eliza- 
beth half an hour later when the lobsters had been 
cooled in another kettle of water, cracked with 
stones and eaten from their shells. 

" More bread and butter? " asked Amory. " Let 
me see — we are permitted both cake and cookies. 
Have some more lemonade? " 

" Just a little," said Elizabeth, holding out her 
cup. " Do you often come here to picnic? " 

" We used to come very frequently. Uncle Eob- 
ert was fond of the place and he would come with 
me. It is a little farther than Aunt Eunice likes, 
especially now that she tires easily." 

They finished their meal and Elizabeth helped 
collect the lobster shells and throw them off a pro- 
jecting rock into deep water. " Why, is that the 



170 JOUKNEY'S END 

moon? '' she exclaimed. " Wliere has the afternoon 
gone? " 

" Where it always goes when one is having a good 
time. We shall have to beat against the wind go- 
ing home, so perhaps we'd better start." 

On the crest of the island Elizabeth turned to 
look back. Amory, a little in advance, turned also 
to see her making the same gesture in farewell. 
There was something so unconscious and at the 
same time so appealing in the girlish figure that he 
smiled in sympathy. 

"Would you like to steer?" he asked when the 
Whitewing was well on her first leg for Freeport. 

Elizabeth accepted eagerly and under his direc- 
tion sailed the boat home. She made a pretty pic- 
ture with feet braced, her slender hands occupied 
with sheet and tiller, hair blowing about her ear- 
nest face. She was completely absorbed in her oc- 
cupation, taken up with the momentous importance 
of every necessary shift, requesting an explanation 
for every order from her companion. At this stage 
of the sail Amory could not flatter himself that she 
gave him personally any thought at all. 

" Good work ! " he commented briefly when she 
made the mooring so cleverly that he picked it up 
at the first trial. "And there is Aunt Eunice wait- 
ing for us." 

Mrs. Kussell came down the sea-wall steps and 



SOMETHING MYSTERIOUS HAPPENS 171 

crossed the beacli to meet the incoming tender. 
" Did you have a nice time, children? " she asked, 

" Perfectly bully ! " said Elizabeth, kissing her 
impulsively. " I wish you had been with us to 
enjoy it, too." 

*^ I am glad to see thee back," went on MLrs. Rus- 
sell. " Not that I have worried, but, Amory, I have 
had such a strange experience during thy absence, 
such a startling one, and I am so relieved that thee 
has come." 

" Why, what has happened? " asked Amory, him- 
self startled by the unwonted agitation she dis- 
played. " What is wrong, Aunt Eunice? " 

" I do not know, Amory. Thee told me Caroline 
had given a letter of introduction to a young Chi- 
nese gentleman who wished to visit Journey's End. 
An hour or so after thee and Elizabeth had gone he 
came. Bell brought the letter to me on the terrace 
and said she had shown him into the east parlor. 
The letter was directed to thee, but knowing what 
it was, I opened it that I might speak his name cor- 
rectly when I greeted him. I delayed perhaps three 
minutes in reading the letter and then I went to 
the east parlor. Thee can imagine my astonish- 
ment to find he was not there ! " 

" Not there? " repeated her nephew. " Bell is 
new to the house; had she not misnamed the 
room? " 



1Y2 JOURNEY'S END 

" She had not, Amory, and this is what is strange. 
There on a chair lay a straw hat and a cane and 
gloves, but the man himself was gone. And I had 
not been over three minutes." 

Amory muttered something under his breath. 
" Caroline ought to be careful whom she sends 
here," he said aloud. " What did thee do? " 

" I was startled, Amory ; I was very much start- 
led. I looked into the west rooms and they were 
empty. I looked into thy rooms and he was not 
there. The house was absolutely still and the 
strangeness of the happening struck me very for- 
cibly. 

" I thought a moment and I was afraid that the 
man might not be what Caroline supposed and that 
he was in hiding somewhere in Journey's End. I 
considered what to do and then I went to the gate 
and asked a passing child to call to me the police- 
man who patrols our district. Fortunately I had 
seen him go by as I came from the garden. He 
came to me at once and when I told my story he 
sent for another man and together they searched 
the whole house. But the Chinese was not there." 

" Probably he just went away," said Amory con- 
solingly, though his face was grave. 

" But why should he leave his hat and cane be- 
hind him? " 

" I don't know. Didn't Bell see him go? '' 



SOMETHING MYSTEEIOUS HAPPENS 173 

" I did not wish to frighten her so I merely asked 
her if she saw him leave and she said not. Bertha 
had already gone, so I sent Bell into the garden lest 
she encounter the of6.cers.'' 

"Elizabeth," said Amory suddenly, "will you 
come up to the house and stay with Aunt Eunice 
while I telephone the police? " 

" Of course I will," said Elizabeth, hardly notic- 
ing in her agitation and concern that he had spoken 
to her by her given name. 

" I must confess that I would not be alone just 
now," said Mrs. Russell wearily. 

"I wish I had been here. Aunt Eunice," said 
Amory affectionately. " I would have spared thee 
this. I must learn how and when that Chinese 
person left Freeport. Did thee find that he had 
taken anything from the house? " 

"In my hasty inspection I noticed nothing 
missing. He had taken not even his own prop- 
erty." 

Amory supported his aunt as they went up 
through the garden and looked keenly at her as she 
sank into an armchair in the west sitting-room 
where Elizabeth took a stool at her feet. Then he 
shut off the down-stairs telephone and went to the 
instrument in his own room. He was gone for 
some time and the two did not talk. Mrs. Russell 
sat with head thrown back and eyes closed, and 



174 JOURNEY'S END 

Elizabeth softly stroked the transparent hand she 
held. 

"Amory is long," said Mrs. Russell at last. " I 
feel more composed now, Elizabeth. It is unlike 
me to be troubled over a small thing, but this came 
so suddenly and so strangely that it quite upset me. 
And perhaps, too, I am cowardly now that Amory 
is at home. During his long stay in France I was 
forced to carry my own burdens and it is so sweet 
and so easy now to transfer them to his willing 
shoulders. Thy father will not worry over thy pro- 
longed absence? '' 

" He is at the club. Aunt Eunice. When I told 
him I was going sailing he said he should not be 
home before eleven. It is not yet ten. Have both 
the maids gone? " 

" That troubles me also, Elizabeth. Thee knows 
that Lydia went to her sister's home because of her 
injured hand. Bertha has never slept in the house 
but comes each morning. I expected Bell to sleep 
here, but to-night she said she had changed her 
plans and wished to come daily as does Bertha. 
She gave no reason only that she did not care to 
stay. Do not mention this to Amory, for it is 
too trivial to be brought to his attention, and in- 
deed, I do not know why I permit it to trouble 
me." 

" YouVe had a horrid day," said Elizabeth sym- 



SOMETHING MYSTERIOUS HAPPENS 176 

pathetically. " I wish we hadn't gone sailing and 
left you alone. What with Lydia's accident and 
all, I'm afraid you won't have a good night. Don't 
you want me to come and sleep on the couch in your 
room?" 

" Thee is kind to think of it, Elizabeth, but I 
must not indulge my foolish weakness. And, in- 
deed, I can have Amory at my side in one moment, 
for the dear boy has had a bell put into his room 
with the connecting wire to mine. I have but to 
touch a button which hangs beside my pillow and 
the bell rings at the head of his bed. I shall not 
hesitate to call him to me if I feel startled during 
the night. There, he is coming." 

Both looked up expectantly as Dr. Russell en- 
tered. " I have been all over the house," he said 
cheerfully, " and I have talked with the police cap- 
tain. It looks as though Friend Yin simply got 
cold feet over the idea of a call on strangers and 
took French leave. The police think he may yet be 
in Freeport, for they have ascertained that no per- 
son answering his description left by train. He 
may have gone by trolley or by motor-car but he is 
surely not in Journey's End. Thee may rest in 
peace. Aunt Eunice. And of his own accord the 
captain has ordered a man to patrol this street dur- 
ing the night." 

" That is a comforting thought, Amory, but thy 



176 JOUENEY'S END 

presence is all I need for reassurance. Must thee 
go, Elizabeth.? Then take her home, Amory/' 

" Let me go alone,'' said Elizabeth. " It is ab- 
surd to think I must have an escort just to next 
door. I'd rather he wouldn't leave you, Aunt 
Eunice." 

" We will compromise," said Amory, smiling. "I 
will take you to the gate of Journey's End and 
watch you enter your own. Then I shall be within 
call of Aunt Eunice and yet keep you in sight." 

" Good-night, dear Aunt Eunice," said Elizabeth, 
taking an affectionate leave. " Sleep well, and 
pleasant dreams." 

The way to the front door lay past the east parlor 
and as they passed Elizabeth glanced in. " I still 
think that is a queer performance," she said. 

" So do I," agreed Amory. " I have given orders 
for this Yin to be looked up and located, wherever 
he is. No doubt my sister sent him in all good 
faith and were it not for the things he left behind 
him I would believe myself what I told Aunt Eu- 
nice just now, that he merely changed his mind and 
went. But had he done that he would have taken 
his hat. That makes me think he left in very great 
haste and for some reason not at all apparent." 

" Gracious ! " said Elizabeth suddenly, " what is 
that? " 

"Oh, just the eyes of the ivory dragon," said 



SOMETHING MYSTEEIOUS HAPPENS 177 

Amory. He touched the switch inside the door and 
the stately room flashed into full vision. There on 
its green velvet mat stood the lordly dragon and 
upon a chair lay the hat, cane and gloves of the 
mysteriously vanished Yin. 

" I see," said Elizabeth, relieved and ashamed of 
her sudden touch of nervousness. She glanced at 
Amory to see him staring at the dragon with a puz- 
zled expression. " What is it? " she asked. 

"Nothing," said Amory, putting out the light, 
but as they went down the hall he could have sworn 
that on the previous evening when he removed and 
broke the bell, the dragon stood with its head to- 
ward the garden and the sea. Now it was facing 
the street. 



CHAPTER XIV 

IN WHICH ELIZABETH MAKES A CALL AND AMORY 
ASKS A FAVOR 

AMORY was too concerned about Mrs. Rus- 
sell's agitation to leave lier before he was 
certain she would have a quiet night. 
After she had gone to bed he read to her until she 
actually fell asleep. For a few moments he sat 
watching her quiet face and then, satisfied that the 
strange experience of the afternoon had done her 
no real harm, started for his own room. 

A hanging light illuminated stairs and landing, 
and as Amory passed, his attention was attracted 
to the tall clock by the ship Iris. 

" Stopped," he thought, and was passing on when 
an idea occurred to him. It was unusual for that 
clock to stop ; as a rule it was as steady as Time it- 
self. He went down the few steps and opened the 
door. 

" Of course that heathen Chinee isn't here," he 
reflected as he looked into the case, " only it is the 
one place I didn't look, and I have hidden here my- 
self when I was a kid. From Carol's description 

178 



ELIZABETH MAKES A CALL 179 

he could squeeze into a small hole. Empty, but the 
clock has stopped without running down." 

The heavy weights on either cord hung but half- 
way from the floor of the clock-case. Amory 
glanced at its face. " Stopped at four-forty-seven/' 
he commented. " Just about the time Friend Yin 
must have been here." 

He started the pendulum and stood for a mo- 
ment while it continued its rhythmic tick. Noth- 
ing appeared to be wrong, and, consulting his 
watch, he set the hands correctly. At that moment 
came a knock on the front door. 

It was a soft knock as of one who merely wishes 
to attract attention rather than announce an ar- 
rival. Amory went down and opened the door the 
width of the chain. In the porch stood a patrol- 
man. 

" Is everything all right. Dr. Russell? " he asked. 
" I saw a light." 

" Right, thank you. I am just going to bed." 

" Rum customer, that Chinee," observed the man. 
" Nobody saw him come and nobody in town seems 
to have seen him leave." 

" I know he isn't in the house. I have been all 
over it again since the first search." 

" Beats me," said the officer. " I'm going to take 
a turn through your garden. I'll be in hearing, so 
just shout if you want help." 



180 JOURNEY'S END 

Amory thanked him and went up-stairs. He was 
tired and mentally disturbed and sleep was long in 
coming, though come it finally did. He woke early 
and immediately visited his aunt's bedside. She lay 
peacefully unconscious, her breath coming regu- 
larly, and Amory experienced a feeling of relief at 
her improved appearance. 

" Lydia must come back," he thought. " I can't 
have Aunt Eunice left alone again. I'll get a 
trained nurse to wait on Lydia if she won't come 
under any other conditions." 

While dressing he came across the letter received 
from Caroline on the previous morning and re-read 
it. " This is the twentieth century," he said to 
himself. "Amulets and evil spirits ! What rot ! " 

Breakfast was late, and while they still lingered 
over the table on the terrace, Elizabeth came 
through the garden, looking, in her blue linen dress, 
quite in keeping with the larkspurs that bordered 
her path. 

" How is Aunt Eunice? " she called. "And what 
is the matter with your telephone? Central said 
nobody would answer, and I thought I'd better 
come over at once." 

" We didn't know anything was the matter," said 
Amory, rising to greet her. "Well! of course! 
That is my fault, and I beg your forgiveness. I for- 
got to throw on the down-stairs connection and the 



ELIZABETH MAKES A CALL 181 

bell has been ringing behind a closed door in my 
empty room." 

"Oh, all right!" laughed Elizabeth. "But I 
was worried when I could not get one word." 

" Come and kiss me, Elizabeth," said Mrs. Rus- 
sell. " I am sorry thee worried. Here in the sun- 
light and the garden my fears of yestereve seem 
more foolish than I like to acknowledge. Dear, 
will thee have some coffee? " 

" No, thank you. Dad made an early start for 
Boston and we breakfasted an hour ago. Very im- 
polite of me to come and interrupt you. Please sit 
down and finish. Dr. Russell. If you don't I shall 
go straight home." 

" It is odd to hear Amory addressed with such 
formality," said Mrs. Russell gently. " We Friends 
are accustomed to a plain name. You have seen 
considerable of each other now, can you not be 
Amory and Elizabeth? " 

Amory gave his aunt a quick glance. Had he 
been mistaken in thinking her a little unwilling 
that he should ask Elizabeth to go sailing? This 
certainly did not sound like it, — quite the contrary, 
in fact. 

Elizabeth colored with embarrassment, but her 
composure was at once restored by the frank and 
pleasant smile with which Dr. Russell looked at 
her. 



182 JOUKNEY'lS EJSTD 

" Please, Elizabeth, have some grapes, if you re- 
fuse coffee," he said after the slightest pause, 
offering her a dainty fruit-plate. "And you 
ought not to scorn this coffee just because I made 
it." 

" I didn^t know you did," retorted Elizabeth. 
" Oh, Lydia isn't here? " 

"And Bertha has not yet come," added Mrs. 
Russell. " She is due at any moment, but the 
breakfast is none of my getting. Amory did it all. 
I was permitted only to pick fresh flowers for the 
vase on the table." 

" I shall persuade Lydia to come back to-day," 
said her nephew. " I think I can arrange things 
so she will. Are you going to the dance at the 
Yacht Club to-night, Elizabeth? " 

" I think so," replied Elizabeth, her cheeks flush- 
ing slightly. 

" If Lydia is here I believe I will attend. I 
haven't been there since I came home. Will you 
give me two dances? " 

" Yes, but if you are late in coming I may not be 
able to keep them." 

"Perhaps it might be safer to escort you 
then, if I may. Or has some one else that priv- 
ilege? " 

" No, I shall go with Dad. If you care to come 
with us, he will like to have you." 



ELIZABETH MAKES A CALL 183 

*' Then I will see what I can do with Lydia and 
telephone you later in the morning. Thank you for 
letting me butt in." 

" Can I do anything for you, Aunt Eunice? '' 
asked Elizabeth. " I ought to go home and talk 
with the cook. I'm a wretched housekeeper, I fear. 
Margaret comes up and asks me what I want for 
dinner and if I suggest anything, she has some pon- 
derous reason why it isn't practicable, and it al- 
ways ends by her having exactly what she had de- 
cided to have when she came to me. Oh, Aunt 
Eunice, what a lovely little watch ! I haven't seen 
it before." 

"Amory brought it to me from Paris. I have 
worn it, but perhaps my sleeve has concealed it 
from thee. I never thought I should wear a wrist- 
watch, and indeed I never before saw one I cared to 
possess. But this is so very small and so entirely 
simple and plain that it does not seem showy and 
conspicuous like a gold one. They are pretty and 
suitable for young girls like thee, Elizabeth, but 
would be only a vanity for me. This, with its pale 
color, whiter even than silver, appeals to me. It is 
of a metal which I do not know, which Amory says 
is platinum. Somehow it seems suited to my sim- 
ple dress." 

Elizabeth looked at the young doctor, straight 
into eyes brimming with laughter. " She hasn't an 



184 JOUKNEY'S END 

idea," thought Elizabeth, " that it cost three times 
as much as a gold one ! " 

"Don't tell her," said the laughing eyes, and 
Elizabeth smiled back. Their affectionate amuse- 
ment over Mrs. Russell's unworldly enjoyment of 
that expensive little watch forged a bond of interest 
between them. 

"It's a beauty, Aunt Eunice," said Elizabeth 
earnestly. "I've seen platinum watches before 
but they were very elaborately ornamented, not so 
pretty for you as this plain one." 

" Amory said he could not find one that suited 
him, so had this made to order. I feel as though 
it was not inappropriate for my use. No, dear, I 
do not think of anything thee can do for me, but thy 
company is ever welcome. Ah, there is Lydia. Ex- 
cuse me, children." 

"Thanks for not giving me away," laughed 
Amory as his aunt went into the house. " If she 
had any idea of the real value of that timepiece, 
she would not wear it." 

" It exactly suits her. I love platinum jewelry 
but I never expect to have any. I'm the third girl, 
you see, so there are two others besides Mother who 
come first, and Dad says he can't look like three 
million on thirty cents. It was clever of you to 
realize that perfectly plain platinum would look 
like Aunt Eunice," 



ELIZABETH MAKES A CALL 185 

"I didn't see anything in the Paris shops that 
she would wear, all I could find was some fine 
handkerchiefs, and I wanted something else. One 
day I saw a lot of wrist-watches and it came to me 
that the color of platinum was right for her if I 
could get one that wasn't elaborately carved and 
set with diamonds. So I had a heart-to-heart talk 
with the jeweler. He caught my idea exactly and 
took a lot of trouble over it. He assured me that 
Madame, ma tante, could not fail to approve, and 
she did. It amuses me unspeakably that she 
thinks a platinum watch less of a vanity than a 
gold one." 

"I am afraid you like to tease," commented 
Elizabeth. "But was everything all right this 
morning? " 

"Perfectly. And when I see you this evening 
I may have further news to report about Yin Luk. 
Sometime to-day I should hear from my request to 
the police." 

Mrs. Russell came back and Elizabeth took leave. 
Amory went with her through the garden as far as 
the sea-wall. Their talk was trivial, about the 
larkspurs and the Whitewing and their picnic the 
previous evening and of a strange yacht anchored 
in the harbor, but as Elizabeth went up to her own 
home, she was conscious of an unusual feeling of 
happiness. 



186 JOURNEY'S END 

" It is too good to last/' she said to herself. *^ It 
won't last, of course ; it is just because Aunt Eunice 
likes me and he is nice for that reason, but I am 
going to enjoy it, and anyway, it will be a pleasant 
memory. And I shall not write one word of it to 
Maine." 

All day Elizabeth went about with a happy face 
and when dinner was served, sat opposite her father 
with a sort of gentle radiance that attracted his 
attention, though she was less talkative than usual. 
When they were finishing the dessert, she pro- 
posed to have coffee brought to the veranda and 
led the way. 

" What time do you want to start for that dance, 
Bess?" asked Mr. Emerson, as he settled himself 
in a luxurious chair. 

"Half -past eight, nine — any time, Dad. Dr. 
Russell has asked if he may go with us." 

Mr. Emerson glanced at her. She had spoken 
with studied indifference, but he was too sensitive 
to her moods not to note the undercurrent in her 
voice. 

"Dr. Russell, eh? I thought he was considered 
unpardonably exclusive by all the old dowagers. 
So he is coming over? Doesn't that let me out of 
going? " 

" It does not. Dad. I want you too. Dr. Russell 
is the third one in this party. And you mustn't 



ELIZABETH MAKES A CALL 187 

think he cares about going with me, either; it just 
happens.'' 

"And it just happened that you went sailing 
yesterday? How about that, Bess? " 

" Dad,'' said Elizabeth frankly, " I don't care a 
great deal about men, not the men who play around 
with Dot and Marion. Oh, I have played with 
them, too, — I admit it, — but down in the bottom 
of my heart I don't really like them. Dr. Russell is 
different. I had an awfully good time with him 
yesterday afternoon and it was because he didn't 
say or do one single thing I didn't like. And the 
nice part was that I knew in the beginning that he 
wouldn't, and so I didn't have to be on my guard 
lest he should. He was just nice, — oh, I don't sup- 
pose I can make you understand." 

" I understand much more than you think, Bess," 
said Mr. Emerson reflectively. 

" I hate a man who makes love the second time 
he meets you. I hate a man who wants to kiss 
every girl he meets and thinks he can do it. All 
girls aren't like that. I think Dr. Russell could 
be a real friend, one worth having. He was a fine 
comrade on that picnic. We liked the same sort 
of things, Dad, the sea and the dunes and all that. 
It was nothing much and never will be, but I want 
to enjoy it just while it lasts." 

Elizabeth was sitting on the step near her 



188 JOUKNEY'S END 

father's chair and when she stopped talking, he 
reached out and stroked her head. 

" Russell seems a fine chap/' he observed. " His 
father went the pace. I have been told that Charles 
Russell was a very brilliant fellow but utterly with- 
out any sense of responsibility. He wa.^ a man of 
such great personal charm that people loved him in 
spite of his faults. But I have never heard any 
serious criticism of young Amory ; he seems to re- 
semble his father only in good points. His Uncle 
Robert, who brought him up, was one of the finest 
men Freeport ever knew, and I can imagine Robert 
Russell took good care to guard against inherited 
tendencies in Amory. At any rate, he didn't break 
loose as his father did. The only thing I have heard 
against him is something I don't credit; that he is 
staying here in town and giving up opportunities 
which would be of great advantage to him pro- 
fessionally because of his aunt's money." 

"I am sure that isn't true," said Elizabeth in- 
dignantly. " He as much as told me that he wanted 
to go elsewhere but stayed because he felt he ought 
not to leave her." 

"I didn't believe it," said Mr. Emerson. 
" Amory inherited enough from his own father, so 
he ought not to worry. He does not strike me as 
that sort of fellow at all, and he certainly appears 
devoted to Mrs. Russell. Well, have a good time 



ELIZABETH MAKES A CALL 189 

with a pleasant playmate, Bess, only don't bum 
your fingers." 

" I'm not likely to, Dad. And any moment I'm 
expecting him to act like other men, only I can't 
help hoping he won't. I'll go and dress. It's the 
Yacht Club, you know, so your flannels are all 
right." 



CHAPTER XV 

IN WHICH ELIZABETH AND AMORY GO TO A DANCE 

WHILE preparing for the dance, Elizabeth 
smiled to herself, thinking of the com- 
ments which her appearance would have 
called forth from her sisters. For the first time 
in months she did not arrange her hair for the 
evening in an elaborate manner, but left it simply 
parted and waving back to a graceful knot in the 
neck. The style became her immensely, though she 
seldom chose to wear it thus. But since she had 
so shocked Aunt Eunice she had never visited Jour- 
ney's End with other than a girlish coiffure. To- 
night she felt instinctively that Amory would pre- 
fer it. Elizabeth would not have been human had 
she not taken especial pains with her dress, pains 
to make it charming, though avoiding anything ex- 
treme. 

"Why, Bess," said her father, meeting her in 
the lower hall, " how fine you look. Isn't that a new 

frock? " 

190 



A DANCE 191 

" Blind bat of a daddy ! IVe had this blue thing 
all winter, but I'm fond of it, so I thought I'd wear 
it once more." 

" Somebody looks mighty sweet," went on her 
father teasingly. "I like you in blue, Bess, and 
that way you've done your hair is fetching. Dr. 
Russell is on the porch. I'll be ready in five min- 
utes." 

Elizabeth glanced through the big window to see 
Amory sitting sidewise on the railing and looking 
down to the sea, lighted now by the rising moon. 
He was in informal evening dress, as customary for 
a Yacht Club dance, and he sat very still, a charac- 
teristic she had already noticed. As she came from 
the house he rose to greet her. 

" I meant to ask if I should bring my car and 
then I thought it was ridiculous since the club- 
house is only at the foot of the street." 

"I'd much rather walk," said Elizabeth. "I 
never thought of driving." 

She sat down in one of the wicker porch chairs, 
wondering if, in the glance he gave her, he appre- 
ciated that she was wearing the gown of their first 
encounter. 

" Have any more visitors vanished into thin air? " 
she inquired. 

"No," said Amory, smiling as he also took a 
chair, "but the mystery of Yin Luk is somewhat 



192 JOUENEY'S END 

deepened by the report made to me by the polica 
I telegraphed my sister and learned that Yin left 
Cornwall en route for Bar Harbor. Supposedly he 
was in Boston yesterday morning and came from 
thjere to Freeport. The police ascertained that he 
went to the Copley and that he claims not to have 
left it. He arrived there last evening about seven, 
wearing a hat, and his chauffeur, a Swede, declared 
that they had come directly from Cornwall and had 
not been near this section of the country. I asked 
for Yin by long distance telephone and he informed 
me most blandly that my charming sister, Mrs. 
Chittick, had indeed favored him with a letter of 
introduction. At this point he asked if I spoke 
French and then continued more fluently in that 
language. 

" He told me that the letter was stolen from him 
in Hartford, by whom he has no idea, and that it 
is beyond his power to conjecture who took it to 
Journey's End and there presented it. Nothing 
would give him greater pleasure than to inspect 
the oriental curiosities of which Mrs. Chittick had 
told him, but he was ' desolated ' that this was im- 
possible. His chief had recalled him to Washing- 
ton and he was at that moment preparing to start." 

" Do you suppose that is true? " demanded Eliza- 
beth. 

"It was strictly true. The police verified the 



A DAI^CE 193 

telegram. He received it there at the Copley and 
did leave within an hour ostensibly for Washing- 
ton. The clerk arranged for him on the Federal 
express and the chauffeur had orders to take the 
car as far as New York and await further instruc- 
tions." 

"Well, of all queer things!" said Elizabeth 
thoughtfully. " Then who left the hat and cane? " 

"Who, indeed?" said Amory. "Nothing could 
have been more final than Yin^s denial that he had 
ever been in Freeport, nothing more polite than his 
regrets over any inconvenience to us because of the 
letter presented by the person who stole it. I really 
don't know what to think. Even had I been able 
to interview him personally I doubt whether it 
would have been more satisfactory. An Oriental is 
an odd customer to deal with, though I must say I 
have usually found the Chinese easier to under- 
stand than the Japanese." 

" Nothing explains why the person who brought 
the letter left so suddenly," observed Elizabeth. 

" And that is the point which interests me most. 
Yin may, or may not, be lying about the letter being 
stolen, but in either case we are no nearer an ex- 
planation of why the man who did come, and who 
apparently presented the letter in all good faith, 
left before seeing any of the family. Bell says he 
was a foreigner, but very well-dressed. That, how- 



194 JOURNEY'S END 

ever, is true of any Chinese of the better class. I 
don't know whether we shall ever know any more 
about it." 

" And did Lydia come back willingly? '' 
" Well, hardly that," said Amory with a laugh. 
" I laid down the law to her and threatened to en- 
gage a trained nurse to stay with Aunt Eunice 
unless she returned and unless she permitted Bell 
to give her what help she needed. The suggestion 
shocked her to the soul and she said she would re- 
turn. Her hand was very much more comfortable 
this morning and that reconciled her to my insist- 
ence. I think Lydia didn't really believe I knew 
enough to set her finger, so she is feeling more con- 
fidence in my judgment. Also she was rather im- 
pressed because I got breakfast without devastating 
the entire kitchen. 

" Lydia doesn't realize how much camping I have 
done," he went on. " Mrs. Avery taught both Put- 
nam and me to cook. When we were about seven- 
teen we went up to New Hampshire one winter 
vacation, to the Averys' camp on Big Squam. It 
was only a summer cottage, not plastered nor 
heated. We upset a pail of water on the kitchen 
floor and it froze and we never got it wiped up. 
All the time we were there that floor was glare ice 
and Putnam fell down and broke seven plates. 
There came a very cold snap, so we slept before the 



A DANCE 196 

big fireplace in the living-room and took turns to 
stay awake and keep the fire going." 

" Were you snow-shoeing? " 

^' Yes, and skiing. We did some climbing but 
we had rather a tough experience with a sudden 
blizzard which came up. I broke a ski and we had 
a hard time getting back to civilization. Put 
wouldn't leave me and of course I was handicapped. 
We finally made a farmhouse some miles from our 
camp. They took us in and fed us and put us to 
bed exhausted, after telling us in plain language 
what fools they thought us. We agreed with them 
and we never told our respective families of that 
adventure. You have met the Averys, haven't 
you? '' 

" No,'' said Elizabeth. " Aunt Eunice sometimes 
speaks of them." 

" They don't go out very much socially, especially 
since Put went away, but you would like them. 
Mrs. Avery — I always call her Aunt Ruth — is 
charming, the same type as Aunt Eunice, only 
younger. Here is your father." 

"Hope I haven't kept you waiting," said Mr. 
Emerson. "Bess, why can't that idiot in the 
kitchen have hot water when I want it? " 

" Did you ask her to light the heater. Dad dear? " 
inquired Elizabeth calmly. 

" Yes, but asking didn't seem to produce any ef- 



196 JOUKNEY'S END 

feet. No matter, I don't want it now. And, Bess, 
I met Proctor coming home from the station and 
said I'd take a hand at bridge, so if you feel the 
need of a chaperon you'll know where to find 
me." 

" All right, Dad. Let's start, for this is a Sat- 
urday night dance and on the stroke of twelve you 
must be ready with the pumpkin coach and the 
white mice." 

Elizabeth threw a filmy scarf about her bare 
throat and shoulders and took her father's arm. 
Amory fell into step on the other side and at once 
inquired for Billy and how he liked his camp. His 
one son was a subject of which Mr. Emerson never 
grew tired, and they were yet discussing Billy's 
sketchy and infrequent letters when they entered 
the big, somewhat bare rooms of the Yacht Club. 
Its walls were hung with banners and trophies and 
its excellent floor was already occupied by dancing 
couples. 

With a word to his daughter, Mr. Emerson van- 
ished in the direction of the card-room. Elizabeth 
chose to keep her thin scarf with her but went into 
the dressing-room to inspect her nose and hair. She 
took her turn at the glass amid a number of chatter- 
ing girls. 

" Gracious me ! " exclaimed one with a sudden 
shriek after a peep into the assembly-room. " The 



A DANCE 197 

Grand Mogul has arrived ! Jane Bradford, there's 
Amory Kussell out there ! '' 

" Who? Where? " came one exclamation after 
another. " Step out of the way, Sallie. Here, let 
me have a look. Who's the attraction? This is 
the first time he has condescended to attend a Sat- 
urday night. Did he come with anybody? " 

Elizabeth, powdering her nose and then as care- 
fully wiping it off, was discreetly silent, though 
conscious of a beating heart. She listened without 
a word to a number of frank comments on Dr. Rus- 
sell's distinguished bearing and his infrequent ap- 
pearances at social gatherings. Her own dress and 
the arrangement of her hair came in for remark. 

" It's sweet, Bess, and I love it that way, but you 
look like a Quaker," said Jane, surveying with some 
satisfaction her own elaborate coiffure.. 

" You look about sixteen in that dress," added 
Lois Fletcher whose gown was quite as suitable for 
her mother as for herself. " You had it last winter, 
didn't you? " 

"Yes," said Elizabeth sweetly. "It isn't new, 
but it has pleasant associations, so I wanted to wear 
it." 

She was at the door as she spoke, and half hesi- 
tated. How the girls would talk and exclaim the 
moment her escort joined her ! There was a crowd 
of young men waiting for the girls to come out, and 



198 JOUENEY'S END 

among them, Clive Templeton, generally considered 
Elizabetli's property. 

There were moods when Elizabeth herself so 
considered him, the moods in which she wore gar- 
ments of an extreme style and drove her car with 
an eye for a possible policeman. At snch times, 
she did not mind Clive's proximity. As a rule he 
could be kept in check and his love-making tenden- 
cies nipped in the bud. Elizabeth had no real lik- 
ing for him, in her better moments was unattracted 
by him, but he was the only son of wealthy parents 
and smiled upon by aspiring mothers, though the 
fact was well-known that four different colleges 
had found his pace too fast. 

Clive was near the door, the last person whom 
Elizabeth wished to meet this evening. But as she 
hesitated, Amory detached himself from a group 
and came toward her with a smile. The next mo- 
ment they were circling the room. 

Elizabeth was conscious of surprised faces among 
the young people of both sexes, but she was also 
conscious of feeling pleased. Amory danced as 
only those can who have perfect control over every 
muscle and nerve. He held her exactly right, as 
well, with firm hand offering sufficient support, and 
yet with no touch of familiarity. 

Elizabeth found herself taking mental notes of 
these and of other things, of the expression on Mrs. 



A DANCE 199 

Jardine's face as she recognized them, of the fact 
that though the night was warm Amory's linen was 
absolutely immaculate and his ungloved fingers not 
unpleasantly moist. She talked easily and uncon- 
cernedly, hoping all the time that none of the other 
men would cut in. 

Nobody did, though Elizabeth caught one glance 
of Clive with his lower jaw absolutely dropped and 
at the sight had a sudden impulse to giggle. 

"Joke?" asked Amory smiling. "Who is the 
young chap glowering at us? " 

Elizabeth told him quite frankly. 

" Oh, yes, I know. He was just a boy when I 
went away but I remember some of his escapades. 
We used to call him the Million Dollar Kid. Is 
he a special friend of yours? " 

" I know him quite well," said Elizabeth rather 
unwillingly and then went on honestly. "He's 
horribly fresh but sometimes he's rather fun to 
play with when there isn't anybody else." 

" I never thought there was any real harm in him. 
It was a case of a badly spoiled child and too much 
money. Hell be all right when he settles down. 
You'll have to give him a dance or from his expres- 
sion there will be murder done." 

Elizabeth laughed and to her relief found that 
the pleasant comment removed all uneasiness from 
her feeling about Clive. When the music stopped 



200 JOUKNEY'S END 

they found themselves near him. He promptly 
came up looking rather belligerent, but Amory 
greeted him so cordially that to his own surprise, 
Clive found himself taking the outstretched 
hand. 

" Oh, yes, I remember you," he said grufly. 
" You're just back from France. No, I didn't get 
over. I went in for aviation and got side-tracked 
in Texas. Had the measles. Then they sent me to 
Oklahoma and I no sooner struck that place than T 
was stuck in the hospital with scarlet fever. Got 
over that and fell off a motor-cycle and broke my 
ankle. All I ever saw of the war was three different 
hospitals." 

" Hard luck," Amory agreed. " Was that all that 
happened to you? Haven't you forgotten some- 
thing? " 

" Sprained a shoulder playing football, but that 
was in the day's work," said Clive, smiling involun- 
tarily and thereby transforming his rather sullen 
face in a pleasant manner. " Eve," he added, turn- 
ing to Elizabeth, " I claim this dance.'' 

Elizabeth assented, no longer afraid that Amory 
would misjudge her for dancing with Clive Temple- 
ton. Amory left her with a smile and a slight bow. 

" I haven't seen Eussell for years," said Clive as 
he swung Elizabeth into the dance. " Did he come 
with you, Eve? " 



A DANCE 201 

" Journey's End is next door. He walked down 
with Dad and me." 

" They said he did corking fine work in France," 
Clive went on. "After the armistice he was in 
some town when the British prisoners began to 
come through from Germany. They were in awful 
shape. Kussell was the only doctor there and he 
really hadn't any business to work except under 
American direction and in an American hospital, 
but they say he just knocked all rules and regula- 
tions galley west and dug in his toes and took care 
of those released prisoners and saved the situation, 
— ^he and some American Y workers. It was forty- 
eight hours before the British Ked Cross arrived. 
He might have been court-martialed for breaking 
all red tape, but he wasn't. I guess they were glad 
he tackled the job. That was something worth do- 
ing. I never knew him much because he was older. 
He and Tom Howland and Put Avery were always 
together. Must be sort of hard for Russell to come 
back to Freeport when they were killed in France. 
Ever see that old aunt of his? Oh, I forget, she's 
a chum of yours. Some old girl, too. How about 
the Country Club to-morrow afternoon? " 

"I can't promise anything," said Elizabeth 
cautiously. "No, Clive, let's keep this step. 1 
don't feel like racketing to-night. Besides, the 
Yacht Club bars it." 



202 JOUKNEY'S END 

" Vve looked all over the floor and there's nobody 
to stop us. Let's put some pep into the place." 

" No, I won't. Put your hand back where it be- 
longs and hold your head up.'' 

" Gee, but you're cross to-night. Eve. What do 
you care what they think? Two weeks ago you 
were ready to go the limit." 

"That Saturday isn't this," replied Elizabeth 
curtly. "Either dance as I want you to or take 
me over to Mrs. Thompson." 

Clive looked sulky but mended his manners and 
Elizabeth had no further reason for complaint. 
Through the rest of the dance and others that suc- 
ceeded she kept one eye alert for Amory's move- 
ments. For some time he did not appear on the 
floor but after a while she saw him dancing with 
Phebe Ames and then with Helen Sturgis. Helen 
was a quiet girl whose family had always lived in 
Freeport, a girl never specially popular, but one 
who invariably had a pleasant word for every one. 
After that, Elizabeth saw Amory in deep conver- 
sation for a long time with an elderly gentleman 
whom she knew to be one of the directors of the 
Yacht Club. The evening was wearing on before 
he came to claim his second dance. 

" I'm afraid you are finding us very frivolous," 
she said as they started. " Here I have been danc- 
ing every single dance, not to count the cut-ins, and 



A DAl^CE 

I have seen you on the floor only twice. Are you 
being exclusive or don't you know the girls? I'll 
introduce you. They're all crazy to meet you. 
Haven't you seen the chaperones craning their 
necks? " 

"Which question shall I answer first? As for 
being exclusive, I hope I am not snobbish, but 
frankly, there are only a few girls here with whom 
I care to dance. Shall I shock you if I say I don't 
mind any amount of necessary undress in a sick- 
room, but at a dance I prefer my partner to wear a 
reasonable amount of clothes." 

" Some of the costumes are pretty extreme," as- 
sented Elizabeth, repressing a desire to laugh. 

"And I have been out of this sort of thing so 
long that I have rather lost interest. Some of 
these modern dances, too, seem barbaric. But I 
suspect I am prejudiced. Remember that I was 
brought up by a little Quaker saint." 

"And you would not exchange it for anything 
else," said Elizabeth quickly. 

"Indeed I would not. There have been times 
in my life when the memory of Journey's End and 
my Uncle Robert and the little Quaker lady have 
kept me from messing things. But I think Free- 
port is changing. I belonged to the Yacht Club 
and danced here when I was growing up, but some- 
how as I remember, we used to have just as much 



204 JOURNEY'S END 

fun in a simpler way. Or perhaps it is because I am 
older that I like better the Whitewing and the open 
sea. There is an interesting island, scarcely more 
than a sand-bar, not far away where the terns breed. 
Would you like to sail out some afternoon and see 
their nests and their funny fuzzy chickens? " 

" I'd love it," said Elizabeth. " I'd enjoy noth- 
ing better. I like to dance, but I love that sort of 
thing, too.'^ 

" And I like dancing when it is with my present 
partner," said Amory with his pleasant smile. 
" Shall you think me impertinent if I ask whether 
this is not the blue frock of our first meeting when 
we didn't know each other? " 

" You are very observant," Elizabeth evaded, 
though she had hoped he would notice it. " Do you 
always inspect every stranger so closely? " 

" It is a doctor's business to be observant. No 
detail is too small to have a bearing on a case, but 
I don't always take notes of people's dress. In this 
case I had reason to do so. Some time when I know 
you very well I will tell you why I remembered the 
blue frock. Haven't they cut the music short? " 

"It does seem so," sighed Elizabeth. The end 
of the dance had left them near one of the doors to 
the wide piazza. 

" Let's come outside," suggested Amory. " The 
sea is wonderful." 



A DANCE 205 

Elizabeth willingly agreed. She was tired and 
hot from dancing and the veranda overhanging the 
water, with its many chairs and broad railing, 
looked inviting. 

" Have you no wrap but that thin scarf? Then 
we must get out of the wind. I know where there 
is a sheltered place if somebody else hasn't taken 
it." 

Amory led the way to a little detached summer- 
house at one corner, closed on three sides but with 
the fourth open to the ocean and the moon. Just 
as they reached it there was a disturbance on the 
piazza and a voice called Amory's name. 

"Is that you. Dr. Russell? Come quickly, will 
you? Somebody in a faint here.'^ 

With a word of apology, Amory turned back. 
Elizabeth, following, saw him enter the ball-room 
where a crowd was gathered in one corner. 

" Everybody stand aside, please,'' he said. " The 
first thing is air — please, everybody leave this part 
of the room.'' 

There was a general movement in response. The 
next moment Elizabeth caught a glimpse of Amory 
on one knee beside a slight figure in pink chiffon, 
whom she recognized as Doris Jardine. Her 
mother had just grasped the identity of the sufferer 
and was approaching majestically from afar. 

Amory and Peter Larrabee, her partner, picked 



206 JOURNEY'S END 

Doris up bodily and carried her out on the piazza. 
" Stay behind," Peter called over his shoulder. 
" Doctor's orders. Clear the decks and go on danc- 
ing. This way, Mrs. Jardine." 

Amory was dashing water in Doris's face when 
Mrs. Jardine, portentous and anxious, arrived. 

"Doris, what happened? Oh, my dear child! 
How very fortunate you were here, Dr. Russell. 
What should we have done without you? Doris, 
look at me. Speak, dearest." 

" She will be all right in a minute, Mrs. Jardine," 
said Amory, still dabbling water. " I wonder if 
there aren't some salts in the ladies' room. Will 
you go and see. Miss Emerson? " 

Elizabeth fled hastily on her errand, convulsed 
by Mrs. Jardine's tone and by the expression on 
Amory's face as she saw it in the light from the 
open door. As a matter of fact, Doris was already 
herself and Amory knew it. He was at a loss to 
understand why she feigned unconsciousness, and 
when Elizabeth arrived with the salts, applied them 
to Doris's daintily powdered nose in unnecessary 
strength. Doris could no longer pretend and sat 
up with a gasp, only to fall back against Amory's 
shoulder. Elizabeth, standing in the shadow, found 
herself heartily amused by the situation. 

"Don't move, Doris darling," implored her 
mother. " Wait till you are quite yourself. Tell 



A DANCE 207 

her to keep still, Dr. Russell. Wliat was the mat- 
ter?" 

" I was too hot," said Doris sulkily. " I didn^t 
feel very well, anyway. I want to go home." 

"Dearest, you shall. Mr. Larrabee, won^t you 
telephone for our car? " 

The willing Peter departed and Doris continued 
to prop herself against Amory. He gave her ade- 
quate support, but his face wore a positively in- 
scrutable expression. To Elizabeth, who had 
learned to know it as remarkably indicative of any 
passing mood, its absolute woodenness was ex- 
tremely comical. She had a feeling that if Amory 
should glance at her it would be with laughter in 
his eyes. His voice, however, was expressive only 
of concern for Doris's comfort, and he held the 
smelling salts in a truly sympathetic manner during 
the few moments before the motor arrived. Eliza- 
beth offered to obtain Doris's wrap from the maid, 
an offer which Mrs. Jardine accepted, though with 
a sharp glance seeming to indicate distrust as to 
why she should suddenly concern herself to be 
helpful. 

" How sweet Bess Emerson looks to-night," she 
observed blandly as Elizabeth departed on her er- 
rand. "And she and young Templeton have not 
made themselves conspicuous as is usually the case. 
At a recent dance their behavior was such that one 



208 JOURNEY'S END 

of the club directors had to take Clive aside and tell 
him it must be stopped. But Bess has really con- 
ducted herself like a lady to-night. It is such a 
pity she has that inclination to be fast. One re- 
grets it in so young a girl." 

" I like Bess," said Doris bluntly. " She is no 
worse than lots of the girls, Mother." 

Amory paid no apparent attention to either re- 
mark and Mrs. Jar dine changed the subject. When 
Elizabeth arrived with the rose-colored evening 
cape, she had evidently been trying to pin Amory 
down to a dinner date. 

" I am really unable to say from day to day what 
I can do, Mrs. Jardine," he was explaining. " Even 
to-night I was uncertain whether it would be pos- 
sible for me to leave. I can make positively no 
engagements in advance. Now, Miss Jardine, if 
you will let me put this cape around you. Take my 
arm to the car." 

" It would relieve me so much to have you go 
home with us. Dr. Russell," persisted Mrs. Jardine. 
" I will put Doris to bed immediately and then if 
you would just take a look at her, perhaps give her 
something to make her sleep." 

Elizabeth was trying not to laugh and Doris saw. 
" Mother, donH/^ she said pettishly. " To faint in 
a hot room isn't necessarily fatal. It's ridiculous to 
drag Dr. Russell away from the dance. He needn't 



A DANCE 

even take me to the car ; Peter will do that. If you 
find when I get home that I'm dying or coming to 
pieces somehow, that will be time enough to send 
for a doctor. Thank you, and good-night." 

" But Peter isn't a doctor " began Mrs. Jar- 
dine. 

" Come on. Mother ! " commanded Doris crossly, 
snatching Peter's arm. 

"Well " said Mrs. Jardine helplessly, and 

then she followed, after effusive thanks to Amory 
and a very stiff bow in Elizabeth's direction. 
Amory opened the door for her courteously and 
stood for a second looking after the party. Then 
he turned to Elizabeth and the face recently so im- 
passive was now that of a mischievous boy. 

"I didn't dare look at you," he said merrily, 
^^ Madame, la mere, who is she, anyway? I only 
know they are newcomers to Freeport." 

"Mr. Jardine is in oil, not broking, but some- 
thing to do with the Standard Oil Company. Doris 
really is a nice child, but Mrs. Jardine, — ^well — she 
isn't like Aunt Eunice." 

" I should say not ! " Amory shook his head 
gravely and then looked at his watch. " Is it at 
midnight that the pumpkin coach is due? " 

Elizabeth leaned over to look at the dial. " Ten 
minutes after eleven. Personally I don't care to 
stay any longer. I think I'll rout Dad out. Prob- 



210 JOURNEY'S END 

ably he's losing money and lie can't afford 
it." 

" I have a better plan. Let's have this dance just 
beginning and then tell Mr. Emerson that we are 
going to walk on the beach for fifteen or twenty 
minutes and that I will take you home." 

" Great idea," assented Elizabeth. It was with 
a happy face she leaned over her father's shoulder 
in the card-room. 

"What's that, Bess? Oh, all right, go ahead. 
I'm having too good luck to leave. Have you had 
a pleasant evening? " 

" The best ever," said Elizabeth softly, and then 
she left him, rejoicing inwardly that there were no 
patronesses to take leave of. All she and Amory 
had to do was to depart by one of the doors opening 
on the porch and from there follow the steps to the 
beach. 

The moon was almost full and the sea lay as 
though calmed by its radiance. An unusually low 
tide left bare a wide strip of sand, twice as broad 
as was ordinarily the case. 

" Your dancing slippers ! " said Amory suddenly. 
" I had forgotten that it might be difficult to walk 
in them. I have seen you wear only nice, sensible 
sport shoes." 

"I wouldn't want to walk far in these," said 
Elizabeth quietly, "but we must stay out only 



A DANCE 211 

a few moments. When," she added, "will you 
know me well enough to tell me why you remem- 
bered my blue dress, though at the time I was a 
stranger? " 

" I remembered it because I had reason to think 
we might not remain strangers," he said teasingly. 
" That is mean of me, — isn't it, — just to make you 
wonder more? For I don't intend to tell you just 
yet. First we must visit the terns and have our 
picnic on the dunes. And then I will see about 
telling you." 

" Does Aunt Eunice know? " 

" She does not," replied Amory, laughing out- 
right. " You will learn nothing by questioning her. 
My conscience condemns me whenever I try to tease 
Aunt Eunice, so you mustn't mind my experiment- 
ing on you. By the way. Aunt Eunice told me to 
ask if you would not like to come to First Day 
meeting to-morrow." 

" I'd like to, but I'm afraid I shouldn't fit in." 

" You will. And I think you will find it a peace- 
ful experience. Come up through the garden about 
ten and I'll let you in by one of the west windows 
in the sitting-room. You can sit there in the alcove 
and see hardly any one unless you choose." 

"Well — ^perhaps," said Elizabeth. "Here we 
are at my wall. I ought to go in now." 

" Thank you for letting me go with you," said 



212 JOURNEY'S END 

Amory, as they reached the house. "May I go 
again? " 

"That depends on how much you tease," said 
Elizabeth saucily from the piazza. " Good-night." 

"Oh, but there should be another word after 
that. My name begins with A." 

Elizabeth laughed. The moonlight did not be- 
tray her pretty blush, only the graceful gesture 
with which she turned away. "Amory, then," she 
added. 

"Good-night, Elizabeth," he responded. "Aunt 
Eunice and I will look for you in the morning." 



CHAPTER XVI 

IN WHICH MR. EMERSON SLEEPS LATE AND HIS 
DAUGHTER RECEIVES A MESSAGE 

ELIZABETH was long in sleeping that night, 
for her mind was too full of happy thoughts 
to permit oblivion. It was becoming plain 
that Amory really liked her company, was seeking 
it for his own satisfaction, not merely out of cour- 
tesy for his aunt's young friend. Certainly, in a 
very nice maimer, he had given her to understand 
that he wanted to see more of her and know her 
better. 

The side of her nature which responded to Mrs. 
Russell and shrank from Clive's influence recog- 
nized this fact, and all that was sweet and womanly 
in her character rose in answer to it. She was 
unspeakably thankful she could have this little time 
alone at home, could enjoy the lovely thing which 
seemed coming into her life, unspoiled by comments 
from mother and sisters. It might never be any- 
thing more than a pleasant comradeship for a sum- 
mer, but she wanted to keep even that for herself 
alone. 

She heard her father come in long after midnight 
213 



214 JOUKISrEY'S END 

while she yet lay watching the moonlight on the 
floor. Later she fell into a light doze, from which 
she awoke with the impression that there were steps 
in the hall and a voice at the telephone. The im- 
pression was not strong enough to induce her to 
investigate and she presently concluded she had 
been dreaming. The next she knew it was broad 
daylight and but for a sea breeze would have been 
hot. 

Mr. Emerson usually slept late on Sunday and 
Elizabeth did not intend to disturb him. They 
were not a church-going family, unless for some 
especial reason. Mr. Emerson never went, though 
he contributed generously to All Saints, the Free- 
port church to which the Emersons nominally be- 
longed. The three girls had been confirmed at 
boarding-school as being the proper thing for well- 
brought-up young ladies, but to none of them had 
it meant anything in particular. Elizabeth, in- 
deed, frankly refused to join the class until over- 
come by the combined influence of her mother and 
the school principal, both of whom were openly 
horrified. Elizabeth gave in, though she sulked 
over the necessity and always balked when Mrs. 
Emerson desired her to do any church work. Yet 
there were times when, having ascertained that 
none of the others were going to attend service, 
Elizabeth would arrive a little late and steal 



MR. EMERSON SLEEPS LATE 215 

quietly into a pew at the rear of tlie church, ignor- 
ing the conspicuous one in the centre aisle which 
her family rented. Sometimes she found what she 
went for ; oftener, she did not. 

To-day she asked the cook to give her breakfast 
on the porch and ate with a book propped against 
the cream pitcher. Her mind was not on its pages, 
for she was trying to decide whether to accept Mrs. 
Russell's invitation. Had the others been at home 
nothing could have induced her to do so, but it was 
not probable that her father would even get up 
before noon. 

She felt decided curiosity as to the natur*^ of 
this First Day meeting. Judging from the Friends 
she had met, they had something in their lives 
which added poise and calm, and a great inward 
peace, to which she was a stranger. And if she 
went she would see Amory again ; perhaps he might 
sit near her. 

The scale finally dipped in favor of going. 
Elizabeth surveyed her white dress, concluded that 
it was perfectly suitable and appropriate and then 
deliberated whether or not to wear a hat. She de- 
cided to do so, but chose the simplest one she pos- 
sessed, a broad-brimmed panama. She was leav- 
ing her room ready to go over to Journey's End 
when her father called her as she passed his open 
door. 



216 joueot:y's end 

" Come in for a moment, Bess. What, going to 
cliurcli, dear? " 

"A sort of church," admitted Elizabeth. " Mrs. 
Eussell has asked me several times to come to their 
Sunday morning meeting, and she sent a special 
invitation for to-day, so I thought I would go. It's 
all right, isn't it, Daddy? " 

Mr. Emerson, lying against his pillows, surveyed 
his daughter quizzically. Elizabeth was not con- 
sidered so pretty as either Dorothy or Marion, but 
even to others beside a partial father, her vivid 
expressive face and eyes of changing color were 
attractive. Bess had " style," as even critical elder 
sisters admitted, and the possessor of that inde- 
finable quality can dispense with more con- 
ventional charms. This morning Mr. Emerson no- 
ticed about her the same illusive radiance of the 
previous evening. 

"Of course it is all right, Bess. You couldn't 
get into bad company in Journey's End. I won- 
dered whether you woke when I telephoned there 
last night." 

" Why, no. Dad," said his daughter wonderingly. 
"And yet I had an impression that I heard some- 
thing. What happened? " 

"We played till they shut the club. It must 
have been after midnight when I came home and I 
didn't go directly to bed. Proctor stopped and we 



MR. EMERSON SLEEPS LATE 217 

smoked on the porch, so it was about half -past one 
when I came up to my room. I didn't put on a 
light, for the moon was so bright and it was too hot 
to draw the shades. As I was undressing I stood 
near the window there. I don't know whether you 
have noticed, but it looks into the garden of Jour- 
ney's End." 

" I know," said Elizabeth. 

" I distinctly saw a man come up from the sea- 
wall through the garden, taking side paths as 
though he wanted to keep out of sight. At first I 
thought it might be young Russell, but he 
wore flannels last night and it wasn't probable 
he would bother to change after coming from the 
dance. Then I saw that the man was a short chap, 
not nearly so tall as the doctor. It was stupid of 
me not to realize at once that he had no business 
there, but I didn't know how late it really was. I 
went on undressing, though I did watch to see the 
man come out from the shrubbery. He went up 
beyond the brick terrace and then came a glimmer 
of bright light as though he had turned on a flash. 
I came to my senses and made for the telephone. 
Central was asleep and it seemed ages before I got 
the connection. Dr. Russell answered at once and 
I told him what I had seen. He thanked me and 
dropped the receiver. Half an hour later he called 
me to say that I had probably frustrated some sort 



218 JOUKNEY'S END 

of burglary, for the man had been trying to jimmy 
the window of a room he called the east par- 
lor." 

" Goodness ! " said Elizabeth. " How lucky you 
saw him." 

" Sheer chance. Dr. Russell wondered whether 
it had any connection with an odd visitor they had 
a day or so ago. He told me about that. Looks 
as though something was going on." 

" But what can they be after? " asked Elizabeth 
meditatively. 

Mr. Emerson smiled. " Plenty in Journey's End 
to attract a thief. Since I handle their insurance, 
I happen to know that they carry fifty thousand on 
the furniture alone, exclusive of the house itself. 
I have wondered that Mrs. Russell never felt un- 
easy about living alone in that big place." 

"Until Dr. Russell came home the man who 
cares for the furnace and the garden slept in the 
house. Daddy, did you ever go to a Friends' meet- 
ing? " 

"Once. It was impressive. They are usually 
fine people, little girl, men and women of sterling 
character." 

" Until I knew Mrs. Russell so well, I had always 
supposed they were rather narrow," said Elizabeth, 
looking thoughtfully at her father's watch lying on 
a stand by his bed. " She has such high ideals and 



MK. EMEKSON SLEEPS LATE 219 

she lives up to them, but she is always charitable 
toward other people." 

" She is a wonderful woman. If I believed in 
theosophy and the transmigration of souls, — ^which 
I don^t, — I should say hers was a soul that had so 
grown in love and beauty that it had very nearly 
achieved perfection in this life." 

" Dad," said Elizabeth abruptly, " what do you 
believe anyhow? " 

" That's too big a question to answer on a Sun- 
day morning before a man is even out of bed. 1 
believe that it pays to be honest and to be kind, and 
to leave the world a little better than we find it — 
if we can. I think that the great first principle, 
call it God or whatever you will, has a plan for this 
creation and that it is up to us to further His pur- 
poses so far as in us lies. That won't hold water 
in any church I ever heard of, Bess, but I am trying 
to live up to it." 

" You are the best ever," said Elizabeth, kissing 
him. 

" Religion never seems to me a matter of a formal 
creed but rather an attitude of mind and spirit. 
In some ways, I believe the Friends come pretty 
near the truth as I see it. Anything special to teU 
your old daddy, dear?" 

" Only a favor to ask, as usual. Please, when 
you write to Bar Harbor, don't say anything about 



220 JOUENEY'S END 

my sailing with Dr. Eussell, or about the dance, or 
to-day either. Td like just you to know for the 
present.'' 

" Never one word will I say," replied her father 
affectionately. "Just close that blind, Bess. I 
think I'll turn over and take another nap." 

Elizabeth adjusted the blinds, with a glance into 
the garden next door, where she saw Amory stroll- 
ing hatless among the larkspurs. " I wonder 
whether he has come to meet me," she thought, an 
inference justified by his glance at his watch. 

Elizabeth went at once though she was not late. 
As she entered by the sea-wall gate Amory came 
toward her. 

" Good-morning," he said. " I hoped you would 
come." 

Elizabeth smiled back as she returned the greet- 
ing. "And how is Aunt Eunice?" she asked. 
" Dad has just been telling me about the excitement 
last night." 

"Aunt Eunice knew nothing about it and I do 
not intend to tell her just yet. Lydia was awak- 
ened, too, and came to my room just as I answered 
your father's ring. There's no doubt that some- 
body tried to force a window in the east parlor and 
was frightened away. Lydia, as she came from her 
room to mine, put on lights which showed on that 
side of the house and gave the man warning. I 



ME. EMEKSON SLEEPS LATE 221 

went down instantly, but lie was gone, leaving tlie 
marks of Ms jimmy plainly on tlie window." 

"What do you tliink lie was after?'' inquired 
Elizabeth. 

" I don't know. Eobbery of some kind, but com- 
ing so soon after Yin's mysterious performance, I 
begin to wonder what is in the air. Your father 
said the man was short and small. So far the 
description tallies with what we know of Yin, but 
he is undoubtedly in Washington, and one could 
hardly suppose a member of the Chinese Legation 
to stoop to anything like this. We have never 
feared burglars at Journey's End, but if this is to 
go on, we may have to put in an alarm. If I knew 
what was the attraction, that might help me to 
form an opinion, but there is never a large amount 
of money in the house and the silver is kept in a 
rather formidable safe. What do you think will 
happen next? " 

Amory spoke as though interested in the coming 
development rather than alarmed by its possible 
nature. " There is Aunt Eunice," he added. " She 
never comes down on First Day until time for meet- 
ing, so I have not seen her yet. We ought to go in." 

Mrs. Russell stood on the terrace as they came 
toward her, welcoming them with a smile. 

" Thee has a morning face, Elizabeth," she said 
as the girl kissed her. " I trust it is morning in 



222 JOUKNEY'S END 

thy heart as well and that thee may receive a mes- 
sage during our worship." 

A very sweet expression crossed Elizabeth's 
countenance but she made no audible answer. Mrs. 
Russell kissed Amory. 

" Thee, too, dear boy. Elizabeth, do not feel thy- 
self a stranger. Thee is most welcome. All thee 
has to do is to sit in silence and await the coming of 
the Spirit. One brings to the silent hour the best 
one has to give, and brings it in the quest of the 
highest. Take her into the west room, Amory, and 
let her choose her seat before the others arrive. 
And then, dear, will thee go to Lydia a moment? 
Her bandage has slipped and she would like it ad- 
justed." 

Amory took Elizabeth into the west sitting-room. 
" Would you like to sit here? " he asked, indicating 
a chair in the bay by the chimney. " You can see 
without being seen." 

" Thank you," said Elizabeth, seating herself. 

" I will go to Lydia now," said Amory, dropping 
into her lap a single pansy from the bunch he held. 
" When I picked that one it reminded me of you." 

He left her at once and Elizabeth studied the 
pansy, one of odd coloring, for its centre was a 
greenish brown and its edges pale blue, a beautiful 
flower though most unusual. She looked at it, 
wondering why he thought she resembled it. 



MR. EMERSON SLEEPS LATE 223 

The next moment two Friends entered the room, 
seated themselves and at once became wrapped in 
meditation. Elizabeth, at one side of the company 
and slightly behind it, could, as Amory told her, see 
without being in view herself. Directly opposite, 
on the other side of the bay, stood a comfortable low 
sofa, but this did not appear to be a favorite seat 
with the regular habitues, for no one took it. 
Elizabeth recognized some of the men as they came, 
figures prominent in Freeport. She saw Phebe 
Ames with an elderly lady in full Quaker garb, evi- 
dently her grandmother. 

Presently two people came to the sofa in the bay, 
both strangers to Elizabeth, but as they seated 
themselves, she thought them the most distin- 
guished-looking couple she had ever seen. The 
man, tall, finely built, with iron-gray hair, had 
clear-cut aristocratic features and a commanding 
presence. Neither he nor his wife was dressed in 
the orthodox manner of the older Friends, indeed, 
the lady's soft silk gown was well within the scope 
of fashion and her hat met with Elizabeth's instant 
approval. Yet her attire was subdued and her face 
one that had known suffering. It was a beautiful 
face, lovely both in expression and in feature, and 
Elizabeth found herself thinking that she must 
have been a rarely charming young girl. 

Lydia entered, her hand in a sling, followed 



224 JOURNEY'S END 

shortly by Mrs. Russell, who seated herself near the 
door. Amory had not appeared and Elizabeth 
found herself wondering about him and a little dis- 
appointed that he would not now be near her when 
he did come, since he would scarcely cross the big 
room to her corner. Complete silence fell. 

Elizabeth had forgotten the French window 
opening upon the garden, and presently Amory 
came from that direction. Opening the screen- 
door, he stepped into the bay by the fireplace. The 
lady on the sofa looked toward him with a 
smile. 

Amory shut the door, sat down beside her, put 
his left arm around her shoulders and kissed her 
most affectionately. Then he reached a hand to- 
ward her husband, who smiled and pressed it 
heartily. 

" They must be somebody he knows very well," 
thought Elizabeth. The lady was saying a few 
soft words now, her lips almost against Amory's 
cheek. He shook his head as he straightened up, 
gave her another look, and then, to Elizabeth's se- 
cret delight and the evident indulgent amusement 
of the lady herself, proceeded to unbutton and pull 
off the glove on her right hand. Having done this, 
he settled back in the corner of the sofa with the 
hand clasped between both his own. Her husband 
watched the operation thoughtfully and then gazed 



MR EMEKSON SLEEPS LATE 226 

into the garden. Evidently he was entirely willing 
that Amory should hold his wife^s hand and, except 
for that youthful performance, Amory's conduct 
was irreproachable. He did not even look at Eliza- 
beth, sitting directly opposite, but kept his gaze on 
the floor. 

A long time passed. At first Elizabeth felt nerv- 
ous and excited, but gradually a pronounced calm 
stole upon her, a feeling of reverence and a sense of 
being near something holy. There were moments 
in the past when she had experienced fleeting 
glimpses of the eternal mountains, known the sense 
of a great Presence, but those moments had rarely 
been in an orthodox place of worship. They had 
come to her in the sound of organ music, in the 
thunder of breaking surf, in the deep woods when 
a thrush sang, sometimes when one of her wild 
moods had been followed by one of repentance. 
For almost the first time, she experienced it in the 
company of others, and recognized it for what it 
was. 

And if Elizabeth were conscious of the hovering 
Spirit, she humbly felt that every one in the room 
must be far more so. She tried to concentrate her 
mind, to keep it on the aspirations toward good that 
she so fitfully followed, and in her own way, prayed 
that she might further God's work on earth, prove 
an instrument ready for His use. It was an ear- 



226 JOTJKNEY'S EKD 

nest wisli and Elizabeth was unused to genuine 
prayer. 

Presently she heard a voice, that of a man, asking 
that in the troublous times of the country special 
gifts of wisdom and understanding might be given 
those upon whom was laid great responsibility and 
the problems of leadership. It was an earnest plea 
for the nation, that she might be kept true to high 
ideals and so work out her destiny that those who 
had given their lives for those ideals might not have 
died in vain. 

Elizabeth chanced to be looking at the hands 
Amory held clasped upon his knee, and at the 
words saw a sudden convulsive movement of the 
one enclosed in his, saw the strong pressure that 
instantly answered. Light flashed upon her imme- 
diately. That lady was Putnam Avery's mother; 
the fine-looking man his father. 

The prayer concluded, silence again fell, broken 
presently by another voice, reciting a poem Eliza- 
beth had recently read in a book picked up at Jour- 
ney's End. She recognized it at once as Whittier's 
Eternal Goodness, As it neared the close the words 
fell like a benediction. 

**I know not where His islands lift 
Their fronded palms in air. 
I only know I cannot drift 
Beyond His love and care.'' 



MK. EMEKSON SLEEPS LATE 227 

No one said anything more. The healing silence 
fell again, unbroken till the clock struck the hour. 
Then after a fitting interval the older Friends be- 
gan to clasp hands and exchange greetings. 

Amory picked up the glove he had spread on the 
end of the sofa and said something in a low tone to 
his neighbor, looking across at Elizabeth as he 
spoke. Then he rose. 

"Aunt Ruth, I want you to meet Elizabeth Emer- 
son. This is Mrs. Avery, Elizabeth.'' 

Mrs. Avery turned with the same lovely smile 
that greeted Amory's coming. " I am so glad to 
meet you, Elizabeth. Amory has told me of your 
picnic on Clam Island and I wondered when I saw 
you if you were not his companion. Henry, this is 
Elizabeth Emerson." 

Mr. Avery greeted her cordially but favored her 
with a keen inspection from under heavy gray eye- 
brows. Elizabeth found herself feeling like a 
schoolgirl. 

" Once or twice when I have come to see Eunice 
I have just missed seeing you, Elizabeth," Mrs. 
Avery went on in her charming manner. " I hope 
Amory has not shocked you this past hour. It was 
but a reminiscence of a time when two small boys 
could not be trusted to sit together and I sat be- 
tween to keep the peace and each would claim a 
hand." 



228 JOURNEY'S END 

" You know I always hold your liand when I can 
do so, Aunt Ruth. I thought you came purposely 
to this corner.'' 

Elizabeth laughed at his mischievous tone and 
Mrs. Avery smiled at them both. " You probably 
know how Amory loves to tease," she said affec- 
tionately. "He was ever trying some new trick 
when he visited us." 

" Aunt Ruth always did know how to deal with 
naughty boys," said Amory in the same tone. " We 
had to get up early if we wanted to get ahead of 
her." 

"Will you come to see me, Elizabeth?" asked 
Mrs. Avery. " I make no social calls now, but you 
will overlook that and come informally, as you come 
to Journey's End. Amory, will you not bring her 
to Hillcrest? " 

" I should be very glad to, Aunt Ruth," Amory 
assented instantly. 

" I would like very much to come," said Eliza- 
beth, blushing. 

"Amory comes and goes as he likes and any day 
that you arrange with each other will suit me." 

"Well?" asked Amory of Elizabeth as they 
found themselves alone in the general conversation. 
" Was there anything very appalling in First Day 
meeting? " 

" I thought it was sweet," said Elizabeth soberly. 



MK. EMERSON SLEEPS LATE 229 

"I know now what Aunt Eunice means by tlie 
* Spirit.' Something doe^ come. I have read, you 
know, about two or three being gathered together, 
but I never truly felt it before. I did for a little 
while." 

She stopped, feeling suddenly shy and uncom- 
fortable, but there was only friendliness in Amory's 
steady glance. 

" I thought you would feel it," he said as gravely. 
" I was sure I couldn't be mistaken. When such 
a set of people as these here get together, men like 
Uncle Henry and Mr. Swain and Mr. Gifford, and 
women like Aunt Eunice and Aunt Ruth, — it gets 
passed on, so to speak. Oh, I knew you would 
belong ! " 

He stopped short, leaving Elizabeth to wonder 
what he meant, but she had no further opportunity 
to find out, even had she wished to ask. 

When she again found herself in her own 
room, her father being yet invisible, she sat down 
to think. Mrs. Russell had hoped that she would 
receive a special message. There had been one and 
Elizabeth could read it plainly now, read it in a 
number of little things; in the invitation to the 
meeting ; in the pansy, which was a combination of 
a thunder-cloud and a sky of blue ; in Mrs. Avery's 
cordiality ; in the sudden glance of her husband ; in 
the mere fact that Amory had told them about the 



230 JOURISTEY'S END 

sail and the picnic supper. These people loved 
Amory, loved him very dearly and they wanted to 
know her, to see — Elizabeth told herself fiercely — if 
she was good enough for him. 

" I'm not," she admitted with more of sorrow 
than of anger. " I'm not and I never can be like 
those women he has loved all his life." 

For a time Elizabeth was silent and then she 
read the message a line farther. They would not 
be interested to know more of her unless Amory had 
shown them that he was beginning to care. And 
at the very last he had said that he knew she would 
" belong." 

Elizabeth's head went down on her window-sill. 
Beyond doubt she had received her message. 



CHAPTER XVII 

IN WHICH AMOEY SAILS A RACE AND TELLS A GIRL 
THAT HE LOVES HER 

'* T YDIA, is tliee not doing too much for the 

I , good of thy hand? ^' Mrs. Kussell inquired 
a fortnight later, as she encountered the 
old servant coming from the ofBLce, a dry mop under 
one arm. " It is Bell's duty to keep Amory's rooms 
tidy. If she is negligent, see that she does her work 
again but do not do it thyself.'^ 

" The floor of the waiting-room did not suit me, 
but now that I have been over it, I am not so sure 
that Bell was negligent. I must order a new mop. 
Working with this one is like trying to mop a floor 
with a bald-headed man." 

" Order another by all means," said Mrs. Russell 
smiling. 

" Bell dusted thoroughly," Lydia went on, " so 
the streaky floor may be laid to the mop. Amory 
did not notice ; men never see dirt, and then he is 
preoccupied. He told me that in Dr. Utter's 
absence he is taking his patients." 

" Yes," said Mrs. Russell, " that is why he has 
231 



232 JOUKNEY'S END 

been so busy these two weeks past. It was a com- 
pliment that Dr. Utter should ask him." 

" I notice that on several afternoons he has found 
time to go sailing with Elizabeth Emerson," said 
Lydia, looking with a certain anxiety at Mrs. Rus- 
sell. 

"And is that not natural, Lydia? Both are 
young and youth calls to youth." 

" It is very natural," Lydia assented with a sigh. 
" And thee is fond of Elizabeth and she of thee." 

Lydia went into the kitchen, and Mrs. Russell 
stood thoughtfully by the garden door. She knew 
perfectly well what was in Lydia's mind, knew, too, 
the deep and abiding affection that prompted her 
interest. 

It was true that Amory found time for the White- 
wing even when his own patients had increased to 
such an extent that his of6.ce hour was sometimes 
doubled, and when occupied with Dr. Utter's prac- 
tice as well. It was also true that Elizabeth came 
to Journey's End as she had always done, but in- 
variably at an hour when she knew Amory would 
be away. She read with Mrs. Russell and worked 
in the garden, always leaving before Amory was 
due. When Mrs. Russell detained her, as she often 
did, Elizabeth was brightly friendly, but nothing 
more. Where was it to end? 

For the hundredth time, Mrs. Russell asked her- 



AMORY SAILS A RACE 233 

self this question and found no answer. "Time 
alone can show whether Amory really cares," she 
thought as she turned away. " For some reasons 
I wish it were Phebe, but I will give him every 
opportunity to be with Elizabeth and to learn 
to know her. After doing that, I can only 
waif 

That very evening, Mr. Emerson came with Eliza- 
beth to call and talked with Mrs. Russell while the 
others discussed the boat races just beginning. In 
the intervals of their conversation the older people 
heard fragmentary sentences about the different 
boats which had entered, and finally some remarks 
about chickens which arrested Mr. Emerson's at 
tcntion. 

" Bess," he interrupted, " if you are contemplat 
ing raising hens, right here is where you call it off. 
I won't have a rooster in my back-yard." 

"Nobody said one word about keeping hens 
Dad," laughed Elizabeth. " It was the terns 
Amory is going to take me out in the Whitewing to 
the bar where they have their nests." 

"All right then. I was merely thinking what 
your mother would say if she returned from Maine 
and found you had gone into the poultry business." 

" I hate hens," said Elizabeth. " They are so 
absolutely stupid." 

" How about your boat? " asked Mr. Emerson, 



234 JOUEISTEY'S END 

turning to Amory. " Have you never entered lier 
in a club race? " 

"Yes, sir, several times. The Whitewing has 
won two cups. I haven't time to go in for it this 
year, Mr. Emerson, and to sail a successful race in 
a boat of her size, one needs an able mate. When 
the Whitewing has been entered, Putnam Avery 
helped sail her." 

" She looks to me like a fast boat. Her lines are 
good." 

" She is a Herreshoff boat, and when Uncle Rob- 
ert bought her for me she showed up well at her 
try-out. But that was a dozen years ago and they 
have gone on making improvements ever since. It 
would interest me to try her some time with the 
Curlew^ Jack Howland's fin-keel. The Curlew is 
the same length but ten years younger. Some day 
we'll get up an unofficial race. I'll wait until Eliza- 
beth has qualified as mate and then we will chal- 
lenge the Curlew/^ 

" You are making Bess quite mad about sailing. 
I don't know that I entirely approve. You won't 
get a boat out of me, Bess, no matter how you 
tease." 

" Oh, Dad, if you only knew what fun sailing is ! 
You couldn't help loving it." 

"You don't appreciate my forbearance in per- 
mitting you to go with Dr. Russell. I wouldn't let 



AMOKY SAILS A KACE 235 

you if I didn't feel sure he knows what he is about, 
but land-lubber that I am, even I am convinced that 
he is capable of managing the Whitewing and that 
you won't get drowned unless he has gone down 
first;' 

" I can swim," said Elizabeth. " I really swim 
well, Dad, and there are so many boats about that 
there is no danger." 

" There is always danger," said her father sen- 
tentiously, "but that is the case anywhere, in a 
motor-car as well. When are you going to see the 
terns?" 

"To-morrow afternoon," said Amory, "always 
provided that I am not prevented. We meant to 
go to-day but John Larrabee, Jr., fell out of an 
apple-tree and broke his collar-bone. I was obliged 
to leave Elizabeth in the lurch and go to the rescue 
of his frantic mother. John himself was compara- 
tively calm." 

The conversation continued general and Eliza- 
beth took little part. She sat with head turned 
slightly from the others, looking dreamily at the 
sea. When the callers left, Amory accompanied 
them to the gate but did not immediately return 
to his aunt on the terrace. Instead, he wandered 
rather abstractedly about the garden paths. 

" Amory," said Mrs. Eussell at length, " I wish 
thee would come here to me." 



236 JOUKKEY'S END 

Her nephew instantly obeyed, with, an odd ex- 
pression on his face which did not escape the ob- 
servant eyes so tenderly watching him. 

" Thee comes as when thee was a boy and antici- 
pated a rebuke," she said with a smile. " Does thee 
think thee merits one? " 

Amory sat down on the step and put his head on 
her knee as he often did. ^' I am not quite certain 
what thee is going to say, Aunt Eunice, but if it is 
a reprimand, I will take it meekly as thee taught 
me." 

" Dear, I have no fault to find with thee, and I 
do not know if what I wish to say is wise, but I 
have had a concern about thee for some time, and 
I feel impelled to speak, though whether for thy 
good I am not sure. It is only this, Amory. I have 
seen thy growing interest in Elizabeth and thy en- 
joyment of her friendship. Thyself alone knows 
what is in thy heart, but the time has come when 
thee should know beyond mistake. If thee is not 
certain, thee should make it a matter of immediate 
decision. Thee must not hurt Elizabeth, and she 
has begun to care for thee." 

There was a silence. Amory did not lift his head, 
but after a time he spoke. " Is thee sure of that, 
Aunt Eunice?" 

" I know it beyond all doubt. I know because I 
love 70U both." 



AMOKY SAILS A KACE i.S7 

" And how much does thee know about me? " 
asked her nephew, looking up with an amused 
face. 

" That thee finds Elizabeth a pleasant comrade 
in the outdoor things which appeal to you both. 
That thee shares similar tastes in books and flowers. 
That thee is interested and strongly attracted, but 
how serious is thy feeling, I do not know.*' 

" Thee shall know now, dear little far-seeing 
Quaker lady. Turn thy ear and I will tell thee, 
even before I tell Elizabeth herself." 

" I hoped thee would be pleased," he added some- 
what later, when he had calmed her agitation. ^'And 
thee is not disappointed because it is not Phebe? " 

" Thee and Phebe have somewhat the same heri- 
tage and experienced much the same training. That 
in itself seemed to me something that might draw 
you to each other, but, dear, I would love amy girl 
thee brings me as thy promised wife. And I love 
Elizabeth dearly; I have cared for her these two 
years past, long before thee knew her. She has not 
thy inheritance and in some ways has been greatly 
handicapped by her home training, but she has very 
great possibilities. Love will do much for Eliza- 
beth ; she will develop nobly under its influence. I 
can already see her beginning to blossom as it draws 
near. I see but one danger in thy path, Amory, and 
that will come from a fault in thy own nature." 



338 JOUR:^rEY'S END 

"What is that, Aunt Eunice? Tell me, please." 

" Thee is naturally fastidious and that quality 
makes thee critical. I have had occasion, not once 
but many times, to bid thee consider others with 
more charity. Thee must never judge Elizabeth 
hastily and thee must be patient with some things 
that will try thee. Thee has seen only her sweet 
and lovable side, but the time will come when she 
will show thee the one that likes the barbaric ear- 
rings and the bad little French hat. And in that 
moment, thee must remember thy own shortcom- 
ings." 

" 111 make a list of them and read it every 
morning before breakfast," said Amory whimsi- 
cally. 

" Thee will do well to keep them in mind," was 
the gentle rejoinder. " And do not be in haste to 
speak. Elizabeth is beginning to care, but it is 
somewhat against her will. I cannot tell thee ex- 
actly how I know this, but there are times when 
she does not mean to let herself love thee. Thee 
must be cautious and not startle her into repelling 
the slow growth of her affection." 

" Does thee think there is any hope for me? " 
asked Amory humbly. 

" Every hope, dear, if thee is discreet. Thee is 
not conceited, but thee cannot help knowing that 
Dr. Amory Russell would be acceptable to any girl. 



AMORY SAILS A RACE 239 

I have noted tliy recent patients and I am quite sure 
that some of them were not very ill.'' 

Amory shook with laughter. " To think of thy 
knowing that ! OH, Aunt Eunice, what a wise little 
person thee is ! '' 

" Not much escapes me when it concerns the boy 
of my love, but I should not have said that to thee 
when I have just cautioned thee against hasty judg- 
ments." 

" Thee would not be the saint thee is if some- 
times thee did not show a tiny trace of human 
naughtiness. Some of them were not ill at all and 
I had to struggle with a desire to prescribe some 
harmless thing which would have given them an 
hour or so of discomfort. Ipecac, for instance, 
would do no real harm and would relieve my feel- 
ings. But I did not. 

" It seems very wonderful that Elizabeth can care 
for me," he continued seriously. " It must be be- 
cause she knew thee first." 

" I have nothing to do with it," said his aunt 
gently, "and indeed there seems nothing strange 
to me that a girl should love thee. My blessing 
and my hopes are with thee, Amory, and when the 
time comes for thee to speak to Elizabeth, she will 
listen. I think I will go to my room, dear. Joy 
can bring agitation as well as sorrow and I am 
weary." 



240 JOUENEY'S EJSTD 

The physician in Amory came at once to the 
front. " I have tired thee, Aunt Eunice. Thy heart 
— does thee feel anything unusual? '' 

" Nothing, Amory ; I am merely fatigued. Per- 
haps in about half an hour thee will come to my 
room and read to me for a few minutes? " 

" Ring for me when thee is ready and I will come 
at once," was the instant response. 

No broken bones intervened the next afternoon 
to prevent the visit to the terns, nor did Elizabeth 
notice the slightest change in Amory's friendly 
manner. They started about four o'clock through a 
blue and white world, sky, sea, puffy clouds and 
white-canvased boats. 

Elizabeth helped raise the sails and insisted on 
taking the tiller. " I must qualify," she said mer- 
rily. " I would so like to see the Whitewing in a 
race." 

" Well," said Amory with a look of mock horror, 
" you will never make it while you do a thing like 
that ! First, foremost and finally, never make the 
main sheet fast ! " 

" You weren't supposed to see," protested Eliza- 
beth. "It was only for half a minute while I tied 
this ribbon to keep my hair back." 

"Let me tie the ribbon or hold the sheet but 
don't do it again. That's serious, Elizabeth." 

" Sorry," said Elizabeth, for his tone showed that 



AMOKY SAILS A RACE 241 

he meant it. " I won't do it again, Captain. Please 
don't fire me for the first offence." 

" Immediate discharge for the second. By 
George, here's the Curlew this minute. Let's chal- 
lenge her. Just toss me that megaphone." 

Jack Howland and Todd Keith, drifting out into 
the harbor, accepted gleefully Amory's proposal, 
agreeing to sail a three-legged course, starting at 
the lighthouse, from there to the whistling buoy, 
around Green Island and back to the light. 

"We'll have to be our own timekeepers," said 
Amory, looking as much a boy as the younger two, 
his hair on end in the wind. " I must see whether 
my watch is like Jack's." 

Having arranged this point through his mega- 
phone, he turned his attention to Elizabeth and the 
boat. " Ease up now toward the light. We can do 
it without a tack if we keep steady. Good." 

Watch in hand, he stood till the boat came ex- 
actly abreast of the lighthouse landing. " Precisely 
four twenty-one," he said, putting it into his pocket. 
"What is Jack yelling? Oh, we are dragging a 
tender and we can't well drop it. We'll have to let 
that handicap stand." 

Elizabeth, alert with excitement, turned over the 
tiller. " You'd better take it," she said. " I shall 
be sure to do something queer." 

" Keep it till I put up the flying-jib. It's a bit 



242 JOURNEY'S END 

fresh but we must offset that tender. The White- 
wing is pretty steady under both jibs." 

Elizabeth had never sailed so fast before. The 
little yacht tore through the waves, piling them on 
either side her prow. '^ We shall ship some water/' 
said Amory, after a glance at the low lying gun- 
wale. " Any frills to be hurt? " 

'' Clothes! '' said Elizabeth scornfully. '' I don't 
mind being soaked! '^ 

" We are pulling away from the Curlew. I be- 
lieve 111 cast the tender adrift. All we wanted it 
for was the terns and we can sail round and pick it 
up later.'' 

Jack cheered this reckless proceeding and the 
Whitewing, freed from the dragging skiff, bounded 
forward with increased speed. Both boats were 
flying before a strong wind. 

The Whitewing rounded the buoy almost three 
minutes ahead of her opponent and Elizabeth hailed 
it as a good omen. 

" We shall need the time," said Amory, " for this 
leg is a different story, straight into the wind." 

For the next twenty minutes their progress was 
one of short tacks while the Curlew swept away 
on a much longer one. 

" Either the Curlew does better on a long tack or 
Jack thinks he can make it up on the run home," 
Amory said in reply to Elizabeth's request for an 



AMOKY SAILS A KACE 243 

explanation. "He may possibly do it, but I think 
he will fall just short in his calculations.'' 

The White wing was steadily beating up to Green 
Island and Elizabeth was kept busy dodging the 
boom and obeying orders. On one turn, Amory's 
sweater went overboard. 

" Never mind it," he said as she exclaimed in dis- 
may. '^ If you go over I'll stop, but for nothing else. 
That wasn't my college sweater so it doesn't mat- 
ter." 

Back came the Curlew in a long graceful swoop 
that brought her near the Whitewing and a little 
ahead, but slightly under the lee of the island. She 
came up with sails shivering and progress almost 
arrested. Amory jammed his boat directly into the 
wind, gave the tiller a sudden twist, first to i)ort 
and then to starboard, and to Elizabeth's amaze- 
ment, the Whitewing leaped forward and distanced 
her rival. The next second they were beyond the 
point and swinging about. 

Jack shouted and Elizabeth waved to him. " But 
what did you do? " she demanded of Amory. 

"Just a trick, like applying a spur to a horse. 
Jack will have to spend at least five minutes getting 
beyond the point now. Bully for the Whitewing! 
Once we got her tilted nearly on her beam-ends, 
with the centreboard almost out of water, but we 
let her go to leeward and the old girl picked herself 



244 JOUENEY'S END 

up and shook herself clear and walked off like the 
lady she is. Gosh ! there goes the flying- jib. Here, 
take the tiller, Elizabeth, and keep her straight.'' 

Elizabeth braced herself, both hands holding the 
boat on her course, while Amory walked out on the 
bowsprit, a perilous performance, to secure and 
fasten the flapping jib, with the White wing plung- 
ing him knee-deep into foam. Scudding before the 
wind now, her prow cut through the water like a 
knife, and clouds of spray rose into the air, to de- 
scend on Elizabeth like an April shower. The taut 
canvas tugged at the sheet and the rigging sang a 
tune of its own. Overhead drifted gulls like foam 
escaped from the sea. Elizabeth sang, too, a word- 
less song inaudible above the wind but one of joy 
and freedom. Presently Amory came back. 

" Good work ! " Elizabeth greeted him frankly. 
" You are frightfully wet." 

" You don't look exactly dry," said Amory laugh- 
ing. " I usually wear a bathing-suit when out for 
scalps, but isn't this sport? " 

" You bet it is ! " said Elizabeth so impulsively 
that Amory only laughed again. 

Having rounded Green Island, the Curlew was 
rushing after them full tilt, with Todd at the helm 
while Jack tightened a stay. By this time some 
of the other boats in the harbor had grasped the 
fact that the two were racing. The Marie Jane 



AMOKY SAILS A RACE 245 

obligingly got off the course, and the Palmers^ 
launch picked up Aniory's abandoned tender and 
was taking it toward the lighthouse. The White- 
wing, still in advance, came down the home stretch 
like a flying gull. 

"Forty-seven minutes, eight seconds," said 
Amory as they breasted the landing for the second 
time. " I know Jack hasn't beaten that. Let's 
sheer off and get our tender. Head her into the 
wind and hold her there." 

The motor boat came alongside and Brooks Pal- 
mer threw over the painter. " Great style, White- 
wing!" he commented as Amory thanked him. 
" How-do, Miss Emerson. Didn't know whom 
Amory had shipped for his crew. Some race ! 
Here's Jack." 

"Forty-nine, thirty-two," shouted Jack as the 
Curlew swept past. 

" Two minutes, twenty-four seconds to the good,'' 
called Amory, waving his megaphone. 

" I missed it beating up to the island. Try again 
another day, will you, Amory? Say, the White- 
wing can sail yet, can't she? " 

" Let's make it the best three," assented Amory. 
" That is the only fair test," he added to Elizabeth 
as he made fast the tender and the yacht passed 
beyond hearing of the other boats. " If the White- 
wing can beat the Curlew, she can shake a sail with 



246 JOUKNEY^S END 

the cup defender of her class. Oh, I knew the old 
girl had it in her yet ! " 

"I really feel horribly excited," sighed Eliza- 
beth. 

"Too much so to look at the terns? There is 
still time with this breeze." 

" But aren't you soaked? Ought you not to go 
back for dry things? " 

" I am practically dry." Amory felt his trousers 
as he spoke. " The sun and wind have done the 
job and getting wet with salt water never hurts 
any one. Let's head for the terns." 

They made the sand-bank with less action by the 
way, for Amory took in the flying- jib and the White- 
icing sailed more steadily. The island in question 
was merely a bar covered with coarse sea-grass 
above bare wide beaches. Not a shrub nor a tree 
broke its barren top and over it sailed countless 
terns roused to anxiety by the proximity of the 
boat. 

Never having seen anything of the kind, Eliza- 
beth did not know what to expect, but she was 
amazed on landing to find that it was really diffi- 
cult to avoid stepping either on the nests with their 
pretty pale eggs or upon the fluffy yellowish 
chickens which ran everywhere. The babies them- 
selves were not afraid, being entirely unsophisti- 
cated, and Amory at once picked up half a dozen, 



AMOEY SAILS A KACE 247 

holding them in the crook of his arm and petting 
them gently. 

"Why, can you do that?" asked Elizabeth, im- 
mediately scooping up a handful. " The darlings ! 
Aren't they sweet? Oh, go away," she added to the 
anxious mothers, swooping close overhead and cry- 
ing shrilly. " Terns aren't gulls, are they? " 

" No," said Amory. " They are smaller and their 
feet are bright red. Gulls always seem cruel to 
me. Their eyes are wicked. These terns are more 
appealing. Look at this mite." 

The mite in question did not wish to be put down 
but immediately ran back into Amory's hand and 
cuddled there. 

" Cunning thing ! " said Elizabeth. " Could they 
be tamed?" 

" I don't believe so. Put tamed a gull once that 
he found on the beach with a broken wing, but I 
doubt whether they could be tamed unless some- 
thing happened to them first. The half -grown ones 
are already afraid of us." 

There was nothing else of interest on the island 
and they finally left the babies and tjieir anxious 
parents and started for home. The wind was fresh- 
ening still more. 

" You need your sweater," said Elizabeth, " Fm 
afraid you will take cold." 

" I almost never do ; I'm too absolutely healthy 



248 JOUENEY'S END 

for that," replied Amory, "but I think there is 
something here I can put on." 

He was rummaging in a locker as he spoke and 
presently fished out a dilapidated athletic shirt. 

" If that isn't exactly like a man," commented 
Elizabeth as he pulled it over his head and then 
struggled into the sleeves. " When a girl puts on a 
sweater, she gets into the sleeves first." 

" So she does," said Amory smUing, " but I have 
no back hair to consider." 

Elizabeth was noticing the initials on the shirt. 
" T. W. H.," she read. " Is Jack Rowland the 
younger brother of your friend? " 

" His kid brother. He was six years younger 
than Tom. Jack was a cute little chap and we 
sometimes let him tag along. Do you know 
him?" 

" Not well. He belongs to the set just younger. 
I have been told that he was rather speedy." 

" I have been hearing that," said Amory thought- 
fully. " I must look after Jack a bit. I was too 
fond of Tom not to do what I can for his brother, 
to say nothing of the fact that I owe considerable 
to John, senior. From something Mr. Howland 
said to me not long ago, I inferred that Jack was 
worrying hitn. Later on, if Aunt Eunice is well, I 
want to take a week's cruise down the coast and 
I believe I'll invite Jack to go with me." 



AMORY SAILS A EACE 249 

" Do you sleep aboard? " asked Elizabeth half- 
enviously. 

" Sometimes, but we usually try to make a port 
where we can go ashore. Once when Tom and Put 
and I were cruising, I dropped the oil-stove over- 
board and for two days we lived on hardtack and 
cold canned stuff. I wasn't especially popular until 
we struck Boothbay and bought another stove. We 
sampled the ice-cream in every place in Boothbay, 
getting five-cent plates each time. Put asked one 
waitress for some water and she said they didn't 
serve water with five-cent orders. Put went into 
hysterics and we had to soak him under a pump." 

" I just envy the good times boys have ! " laughed 
Elizabeth. "You can do all sorts of things and 
nobody criticizes." 

" It seems to me the girls have almost as much 
freedom in these days," commented Amory. 

" Of course we have more than our mothers did. 
Now we have suffrage, we shall have still more. 
By the way, do you believe in votes for women? " 

Elizabeth laughed as she asked the question, 
which she did in a very business-like way. She 
looked extremely pretty, wind-blown and spray- 
bespattered as she was. 

" I certainly do," said Amory promptly. " I was 
taught very early the cardinal feature of the 
Quaker belief that all are equal. I consider women 



250 JOURNEY'S END 

entitled to every privilege men have and I believe 
them absolutely equal, except in the points where 
they are superior." 

Elizabeth hadn't expected such a sweeping con- 
cession and was slightly embarrassed. " It is lucky 
for you," she commented somewhat vaguely. "I 
wish we had brought something to eat," she went 
on with a change of subject. " I meant to bring a 
cake of chocolate, but forgot it." 

" We are almost home," said Amory. " Fifteen 
minutes more will do it." 

Less than the quarter hour found the Whitetoing 
again at her mooring. Just as the tender was being 
swung out on its pulley rope, the Jardines' motor 
launch went by carrying a gay party. They waved 
and called and Elizabeth and Amory responded. 
The launch passed, but voices floated back, its occu- 
pants forgetting how far and how clearly sound 
travels over water. 

"Amory Russell is sticking tight to his aunt's 
apron-strings," said one. "He knows on which 
side his bread is buttered." 

"Looks as though Bess Emerson would land 
him," said another. " She is out to kill." 

It was impossible for the two on the beach to pre- 
tend they had not heard. Amory's look was in- 
scrutable but after one stunned half -moment, dur- 
ing which she did not know where to turn, Eliza- 



AMOKY SAILS A KACE 251 

beth dropped her sweater and hid her face in her 
hands. 

"O/i/ " she moaned in all the pain of her outraged 
modesty. 

" Elizabeth, come into the garden," said Amory, 
picking up the sweater and taking her by the arm. 

" I am going home," she answered wildly. " Let 
me go ! " 

Amory did not loosen his grasp. The launch was 
beyond the boat-house now and he took her by both 
hands. " Come," he said, gently forcing her toward 
the steps of Journey's End. 

"Let me go," persisted Elizabeth, but Amory 
would not release his hold. He drew her into the 
lilac walk and down upon the stone seat where the 
lions kept guard. " Now, listen," he began. 

" I won't," said Elizabeth. " I won't listen to 
anything. Let me go, I tell you. Oh, how can 
people be so hateful ! " 

"Why, look here," said Amory, half-laughing, 
yet with a note in his voice she had never heard 
before, " just look here, Elizabeth. Don't give them 
another thought. The casual judgment of our fel- 
low-men is one of the things that matters least. 
We both know that neither accusation is true, so 
why let it hurt us? " 

" But they are so hateful," said poor Elizabeth. 
" Amory, please let me go." 



252 JOUENEY'S END 

" When I get ready," said Amory imperturbably. 
" And why mind the hateful people when the people 
who love you matter so very much more? Eliza- 
beth, I want to matter most of all. Will you let 
me?" 

"Oh, Amory," said Elizabeth helplessly, and then 
she made no further effort to release the hands he 
held. He, too, was silent, caressing her brown fin- 
gers with his own shapely ones. 

"I never made love to a girl before," he said 
after a pause. " I suppose I might do it better if I 
had had previous practice, but I love you, Eliza- 
beth." 

Elizabeth was silent, her head turned from him. 

" It's true we haven't knovn each other very 
long," Amory went on, "that is, not in actual 
months or years, but time doesn't count in a thing 
like this. I made up my mind some time ago but 
I was afraid of speaking too soon; I wanted you 
to get used to me. But those idiots have made difS.- 
culties for me unless we straighten things on the 
spot. Consider, dear. I'm really a respectable 
member of society and the people who know me 
best are rather fond of me, and Aunt Eunice will 
tell you I'm not very hard to live with." 

"I love Aunt Eunice," said Elizabeth irrele- 
vantly. 

" Ah ! " said Amory triumphantly, " now we are 



AMORY SAILS A RACE 263 

beginning to get somewhere. I love her myself and 
two things that are equal to the same thing are 
equal to each other ! " 

At this utterly illogical deduction, Elizabeth 
laughed hysterically and Amory took advantage by 
sliding an arm about her. 

" I do like you," she began. 

"Oh, Elizabeth," protested Amory coaxingly, 
" I know a word so much nicer than that. I said it 
to you." 

"I don^t know how to begin," Elizabeth went 
on. 

" Why, don't let that worry you. I can suggest 
any number of ways. Begin by saying the nice 
little word and then say * Yes ' ! " 

" Oh, don't be ridiculous. I'm dreadfully in ear- 
nest and you must listen. I'm not at all the girl 
you think I am." 

"A changeling, stolen from your cradle? A 
fairy's child? Your real name Kilmeny? No mat- 
ter, — I love you just the same." 

" Please be serious, Amory. This isn't easy.'' 

"Forgive me, dear. I'll listen, but when you 
finish I shall probably contradict everything you 
say. What is it?" 

" I'm not one bit like you," Elizabeth began nerv- 
ously. "Now don't tell me that's why you love 
me. I only want you to realize. I haven't been 



254 JOUENEY'S END 

brought up as you have. I — I never get on verj' 
well with my mother ; it's Billy and Dad ana i w^ho 
hang together, sometimes Marion. My home never 
was like Journey's End. It's always a sort of 
scrabble, just a place to eat and dress in, and all the 
real interests outside, more like a hotel. We girls 
never had any real education, only just to be at- 
tractive to men and have a good time and have it 
in any sort of way, just to do what the crowd did. 
I wanted to go to college and Mother would not 
let me ! Of course, if I'd gone to Dad and made a 
row, he'd have taken my part and I could have gone 
to Vassar but I hated to drag him into it. It 
wasn't until we came to Freeport and I got ac- 
quainted with Aunt Eunice that I understood what 
the genuine things in life are. She showed me. I 
never had any ideals before, not high ones. I loved 
her and I loved the way things went in Journey's 
End. Over the other side of this wall, I'm a totally 
different person. On this side, it is easy to be good 
and to care about the beautiful things in life. On 
the other side it's very hard." 

" But, dear, that's just what I am asking you to 
do, to come and live on this side always." 

"Amory," said Elizabeth desperately, "I like 
you so much that I am unwilling — no, I will not 
say that word, at least, not yet, — I am afraid it isn't 
fair to you. You don't know what an utterly f rivo- 



AMOKY SAILS A KACE 265 

lous and horrid person I can be. I have a fiendish 
temper." 

Amory shook his head gravely and incredulously. 

" I explode," confessed Elizabeth. " Now you 
never do that." 

" Oh, don't I? Aunt Eunice will tell you that 
she has dealt with me in various stages of ill-humor. 
And it wasn't a week ago that I plain lost my tem- 
per with a woman who came to consult me profes- 
sionally. I am hot under the collar every time I 
think of her. She wanted me to do something that 
was a disgrace to her and an insult to me, and I 
told her so. But I can't see what your temper has 
to do with your loving me, Elizabeth. We must 
only not both be angry at the same time. If we 
stick to that we shall not quarrel." 

Elizabeth sat silent, a very wistful expression 
on her face. 

" Amory," she said at length in a low tone, " I 
do love you. I don't believe you know how easy 
you are to love. But just because I do, I want to 
be perfectly fair, and I'm awfully afraid I'm not the 
girl you ought to marry." 

" I'll risk that ! " said Amory triumphantly. 
" Listen, ye little lions and all the blossoms on the 
trumpet-vine! Take heed, oh! asters and mari- 
golds ! She has said she loves me ! " 

"But I didn't say you could kiss me. Stop, 



256 JOUKNEY'S END 

Amory, I haven't finished. B«iw T\^iU you like it 
when I do something which shocks you unspeak- 
ably? I'm liable to. Sometimes I get into a mood 
when I don't care what I do nor what people think. 
I want to shock them." 

" When you feel that way, come to me and I'll 
prescribe. The real Elizabeth is the one who 
thrives on this side of the wall. When you are here 
for keeps you won't shock me, you won't want to. 
I believe I know you better than you know yourself. 
Say the nice little word again." 

A gleam of mischief crossed Elizabeth's face. " I 
love your ears, Amory," she said, "and your 
hands." 

"Neither of which interests me in the least," 
came the disgusted reply. 

" Your hands are beautiful," Elizabeth went on. 
"Even Dad once spoke of them. And your ears 
are charming because they fit so neatly and have a 
cunning suggestion of a point at the top, like a 
faun's. And I love the way your hair dips in a 
peak in the centre of your forehead. But I suppose 
you are like the man who said he was neither proud 
nor particular and if he was handsome, it wasn't 
his fault." 

" Not a bit like him. I'm both proud and par- 
ticular and glad that I am not physically repellent. 
That would be a serious professional handicap. 



AMORY SAILS A RACE 257 

Elizabeth dear, Aunt Eunice knows that I meant 
to try to win you, and wished me God-speed. I 
know what she thinks of you. She will welcome 
my promised wife with open arms. And I will not 
have you feel that the danger of a mistake is only 
on my side. I have stacks of faults and you'll have 
many occasions to be patient with me. It makes 
me feel very unworthy to know that you really do 
love me." 
" It's true, only I have warned you, Amory." 
"We will love each other and the consequences 
may take care of themselves. And now may I kiss 
you, Elizabeth? " 



CHAPTEE XV ill 

IN WHICH AMOBY AND ELIZABETH FOLLOW THE 
PRIMROSE PATH 

HALF an hour passed before Amory and 
Elizabeth came back from a country where 
Time is not, and became aware that the 
shadows were lengthening and dinner looming im- 
minent. 

" This really is not the way I expected to look 
under such important circumstances," sighed Eliza- 
beth, lifting a tumbled head from Amory's shoul- 
der. " What with handling ropes and tern babies 
and bailing the tender, my hands are black; my 
dress is a sight and my shoes would never be taken 
for white." 

"You haven't much on me. I am not exactly 
clean myself, to say nothing of Tom's old shirt and 
my soaked feet." 

" One reason I like you is because you are usually 
so immaculate," observed Elizabeth. 

" That reason doesn't exist to-day. Let us come 
to Aunt Eunice." 

" Amory, I am too dirty. Let me go home and 

258 



THE PEIMROSE PATH 269 

get dressed in sometMng decent. I will come tMs 
evening.'^ 

" Suppose I come for you after dinner and see 
your father, and then we will both go to Aunt 
Eunice." 

Elizabeth assented. She had been crying, but 
there was no bitterness left concerning the unkind 
remarks from the launch. She was unspeakably 
moved by Amory's gentleness and by a sort of 
reverence in his manner and touch. 

"What shall I do if your father won't let me 
have you? " inquired Amory playfully. " He may 
kick me down the front steps for asking such a 
tremendously cheeky thing." 

" I am twenty-two," said Elizabeth. " He really 
has no authority over me." 

"What an independent young person! I don't 
feel afraid of Mr. Emerson. He has probably real- 
ized that he will have to give you to somebody 
some day — ^why not to me? Well, dear, we both 
are shockingly dirty, and I am most unromantically 
hungry." 

" So am I," said Elizabeth, jumping up. " Don't 
come with me, Amory; there may be somebody on 
the beach. Come over after dinner and see Dad." 

Amory let her go alone and ran up to the house 
like a boy. In the hall he met his aunt. 

"Has thee had a pleasant sail?" she asked. 



260 JOURNEY'S END 

" But, dear, that garment thee has on — ^where did 
thee resurrect it? Do give it to Bertha to be 
washed." 

Amory laughed. "I am too dirty for thee to 
embrace, Aunt Eunice,'' he whispered. " But kiss 
my lips, for they have kissed Elizabeth's ! " 

" Is thee serious? So soon! But I need not ask 
her answer ; I can read it in thy face. Where is the 
dear child? Why did thee not bring her to me? " 

" Because she is quite as dirty as I and in addi- 
tion her hair is falling down. She is coming to thee 
this evening." 

Amory delayed, making happy confidences until 
Lydia came into the hall. 

"Dinner is ready, Eunice Russell," she an- 
nounced. 

" Gosh ! " said Amory and bolted up-stairs three 
steps at a time. Lydia looked after him disap- 
provingly. 

"Keep things back, Lydia," said Mrs. Russell 
gently. " Amory had matters of importance to tell 
me. He will dress quickly.'^ 

"Amory was never slow," observed Lydia. "I 
give him credit for that. Thee looks pale; is thee 
not well? " 

" Perfectly. I was but taken i^back for a moment 
by something Amory said, but it was welcome 
news.'* 



THE PKIMKOSE PATH 261 

Lydia departed, saying she would tell Bertha 
not to serve the soup, and Mrs. Russell went into 
the west sitting-room where hung a remarkably 
lifelike painting of her husband. She stood look- 
ing at it until she heard Amory come down, and 
when she turned away, her eyes were full of tears. 

On the other side of the brick wall, Elizabeth 
washed and dressed in a sort of daze of happiness. 
When she heard Mr. Emerson coming up-stairs she 
caught up a kimono and intercepted him. 

" Daddy," she whispered with both arms around 
his neck, " after dinner Amory is coming to see you. 
Please, please be very nice to him." 

"Bless my soul, Bess — what do you mean?" 
ejaculated her father, but Elizabeth only hugged 
him and vanished without a further word. She 
was almost glad that her father's partner was din- 
ing with them, for she did not want to talk of a joy 
which seemed larger than any words she knew. 

When she came to the table, Mr. Emerson looked 
at her curiously. Elizabeth had inspected her 
ample wardrobe and chosen a simple white silk, 
made in girlish fashion. Her hair was bound with 
a narrow blue velvet band, her one touch of color. 
The radiance he had already noticed was deepened, 
and there was a still happiness about her which 
communicated itself to him. Elizabeth was more 
than pretty to-night; she was beautiful. 



262 JOURNEY'S END 

Yet she was very quiet and said no more than 
courtesy required to Mr. Proctor, though attentive 
to the comfort of both gentlemen. After pouring 
coffee for them on the porch, she excused herself 
and went into the house. Mr. Proctor would not 
stay long ; he had announced an early engagement 
and she meant Amory to find her father alone. 

Presently, as she sat by the window in her room, 
her mind filled with thoughts both humble and 
happy, she heard their guest go and almost imme- 
diately saw Amory coming from the beach, looking 
so manly and handsome that her heart throbbed 
with incredulous wonder that of all the girls he 
might have chosen, she should be the one. A great 
desire to be worthy that affection came over her. 
Elizabeth put her head down on the sill, and for 
the second time in her life, really prayed. She was 
still sitting in the communion of thoughts too deep 
for expression when a maid came to say that her 
father wanted her. 

Smoothing her hair she went down. When she 
came quietly from the house, Amory rose and re- 
mained standing but did not move in her direction. 
He looked rather grave. Mr. Emerson continued 
to lounge in his easy chair and paid no attention to 
his daughter until she stood beside him. 

'^ Did you want me. Daddy? " she asked. 

Mr. Emerson gave a grunt. " This boy," he said, 



THE PKIMKOSE PATH 263 

waving Ms cigar vaguely in Amory's direction, 
^' says lie loves you. Do you want him to? " 

" Yes, please/' said Elizabeth meekly. 

"Why do you want to marry him? " Mr. Emer- 
son went on grumpily. " Don't you have everything 
you want at home? What do you want to leave 
your old dad for and go away to live? " 

" Just the other side of the wall/' said Elizabeth 
softly. She understood her father very well. His 
gruff manner covered real emotion and the smile 
she now saw in Amory's eyes showed that his re- 
ception had not been ungracious. 

" Might as well be the other side of the world for 
all the good you'll be to me. If you were my son I 
should approve of your marrying, but I'd like to 
keep my daughter." 

Elizabeth smiled. Holding her hands behind her 
back, she bent forward to kiss her father's cheek. 

"You'll not lose me, Daddy dear, and there is 
another side to the story. Would you not like 
Amory for your son? " 

Mr. Emerson laughed. " I see it is no use," he 
sighed. " If you are set on marrying, it might as 
well be Dr. Kussell, but I would like to keep my 
Bess. Why, you are nothing but a little girl ! " 

"Mother was only nineteen when she married 
you. I am three years older." 

Mr. Emerson drew her within his arm. "It 



264 JOUKNEY'S END 

doesn't seem possible. Just a little while ago you 
broke your doll and I bought you another. Well, 
Amory, you may have her and I will say that I'd 
far rather have you for a son-in-law than that cav- 
alry major Marion thinks she loves." 

" Thank you, sir," said Amory very quietly. " I 
shall try to be a son to you if you will let me, and 
please God, I will make Elizabeth happy." 

" I believe you," said Mr. Emerson unexpectedly, 
and then he blew his nose and kissed his daughter. 
"Well, run away and have a good time together. 
Are you going sailing? " 

Elizabeth glanced at Amory's immaculate flan- 
nels and at her own spotless garb. Amory did the 
same and both laughed. 

"We are too clean," said Elizabeth. "You 
should have seen us this afternoon. Daddy, when 
we came from the Whitewing, I never saw Amory 
so dirty. I think we had better stay ashore." 

" But we beat the Curlew/' put in Amory, " and 
that was worth getting wet and dirty. Will you 
come to Aunt Eunice, Elizabeth? She is very 
anxious to see you." 

"Yes," said Elizabeth, leaving her father and 
going to him with hand outstretched. "Yes, let 
us go." 

"Good-bye," said Mr. Emerson, watching the 
two as they went, hand-in-hand like children. He 



THE PKIMROSE PATH 265 

did not move until they were beyond his sight 
Then he gave a sigh and turned to his cigar. 

"I believe my Bess will be happy," he solilo- 
quized. " For those two, marriage will be a taking 
hands and running out into the sun at the call of 
the sea and the off-shore wind. I don't think their 
comradeship will fail." 

" Let's not tell any one else at present, Amory," 
Elizabeth was saying as they entered the garden at 
Journey's End. " Mother won't want my engage- 
ment announced while she is away. She'll want to 
have a big fuss and do things we'll both hate, but 
I'm afraid we'll have to let her." 

" Of course we must consider her wishes," as- 
sented Amory. "But you will let me tell the 
Averys? It will go no further and I have been so 
close to them that it will hurt them not to know. 
They and my sister Caroline are the only ones aside 
from Aunt Eunice whom I want to tell." 

" Of course you may, Amory. I only meant that 
Mother won't want it formally announced until she 
comes home, so it won't do to tell many people. I 
shall tell no one but Dad." 

" One moment," said Amory, drawing her into 
the lilac walk ; " come here and sit down. We can 
stay only a minute, for Aunt Eunice knew that I 
went to see your father and she will be waiting for 



266 JOUKNEY'S EISTD 

" No, we mustn't stay/' Elizabeth assented, " only 
just long enough for me to tell you that in my turn, 
I will do my best to make you happy. I loved your 
saying that to Dad. And I want to help you in 
your work.'' 

" I do care a lot about my profession ; I want to 
make it a success, but you will never feel, will you, 
Elizabeth, that it comes before you? There may be 
times when it will seem to you that I consider duty 
before love, but in my heart you will always be 
first." 

" I shall try never to hinder you," said Elizabeth 
seriously, and so they promised each other all the 
sweet impossibilities which Love suggests to every 
boy and girl who discover the path to Paradise. 

" Gracious ! " said Elizabeth at last, " we must 
not stay here ; we must go straight to Aunt Eunice." 

" Dear," said Amory as they rose, " I have a fancy 
not to give you a diamond. You shall have them 
later, but I would like to have your engagement 
ring after my own wish. Are you willing? " 

" I shall love it, whatever it is and all the more 
if it is not like everybody's." 

" It won't be," said Amory briefly and then they 
went up the central walk by the sun-dial. Eliza- 
beth paused for a moment. The dial stood in a 
small round bed, its low gray pedestal rising from 
a mass of blue larkspurs. Later, its background 



THE PRIMKOSE PATH 267 

would change to frilly pink hollyhocks, for their 
blossoms were already showing. The years of 
lovely, gracious living that had characterized Jour- 
ney^s End for over a century had left their peace 
upon the garden also, the peace that only perma- 
nence bestows. The people who dwelt in the old 
house had known the dignity that comes from liv- 
ing in one place through generations, among books 
and flowers, in quiet ways and in the beauty of 
simplicity. The realization came to Elizabeth that 
Amory's rather unusual personality was the direct 
result of such an inheritance and environment. He 
would never let the dust of daily life blot out the 
light of sun and stars. 

Year in, year out, had the dial stood under chang- 
ing skies in the garden that looked on the sea. As 
month succeeded month, bitter cold and burning 
heat, frost, rain and wind had all left their touches 
on its bronze face and granite pedestal. Five gener- 
ations of Russells had known the motto, which, 
with new appreciation, Elizabeth paused to read : 

MY HO U RES ARE MADE OF SUN AND SHADE 
TAKE HEDE OF WHAT YOUR HOURES BE MADE 



CHAPTER XIX 

IN WHICH AUNT EUNICE IS ILL AND LYDIA SEES A 
GHOST 

THAT night Amory did not go to bed early 
nor when he tried to sleep was he success- 
ful, but lay in his quiet room where the 
sound of waves floated up from the beach, very far 
from unconsciousness. His mind seemed unusually 
keen and alert, busied with many plans, in all of 
which Elizabeth figured. 

Suddenly he was startled by a rude shock which 
brought him up standing. The bell connecting with 
his aunt's chamber rang. 

Amory stopped neither for slippers nor bathrobe. 
He had had that bell put in lest an attack, which 
must come sooner or later in the progress of her 
disease, might take place in the night. The bell had 
not ceased its vibration before he was beside her. 

The reading-lamp by the bed was turned on and 
Amory saw in the pale face on the pillow what he 
had dreaded. Mrs. Russell tried to smile, gasped 
and became unconscious. 

With his other foresighted preparations, Amory 

268 



LYDIA SEES A GHOST 

had not neglected to place in Ms aunt's room the 
remedy which would be required and to instruct 
her in its use. It stood there close at hand, though 
beyond her reach. 

His fingers never trembled as he gave her the 
restorative, but his lips were set and his face almost 
as white as her own. After a moment or two the 
ghastly pallor began to change and the breathing 
to become more natural. Soon the attack passed, 
leaving her only a little exhausted. 

" I was so sorry to disturb thee," she said pres- 
ently. 

" I was not asleep and. Aunt Eunice, if thee does 
not summon me whenever thee but wishes to be read 
to, I shall never forgive thee. Call me if thee but 
feels an ache in thy little finger." 

" I wish I had called thee earlier," his aunt ad- 
mitted. " Not that I did not do so the moment I 
had real need of thee, and I will always call thee, 
Amory ; do not doubt that. But for the past hour 
I have had such a singular feeling, not physical but 
mental. It was distressing and it might have van- 
ished had I heard thy voice." 

"What sort of feeling, dear?" 

" It is hard to put into words," said Mrs. Eussell 
slowly, " and as I said, it seemed more of mind than 
of body. I had a sense of being surrounded by evil, 
nothing I can in the least define or describe, but 



270 JOUKlSrEY'S END 

merely an enveloping suffocating evil. I prayed, 
and that seemed to lessen its weight, but it was 
something I have never experienced in my life be- 
fore.'^ 

" Aunt Eunice," said Amory tenderly, " that was 
a symptom of thy approaching pain. A feeling of 
great depression often characterizes certain types 
of heart trouble." 

" It may be as thee says, Amory," observed his 
aunt after a time, " but I am not easily depressed 
though I have known moments of discouragement. 
This was wholly strange. Something seemed near 
me which was alien to my very soul. I felt sick to 
the core of my being. It was not until I could pray 
that the horror left me, which it did like the rising 
of a black cloud." 

"I am so sorry thee did not ring for me at 
once." 

" But after the cloud went I was untroubled in 
mind and body until suddenly it became difficult 
for me to breathe and thy remedy was beyond my 
hand. But I am quite myself now, so return to thy 
bed. Thee is only in pajamas of thin silk ; thee must 
be chilled." 

" I'll get my bathrobe, but I am going to spend 
the rest of the night here on the couch at the foot 
of thy bed." 

Mrs. Russell protested but Amory remained firm. 



LYDIA SEES A GHOST 271 

The clock on the stairs struck two as he entered his 
own room and to his surprise found Lydia standing 
in its centre. 

" Amory Russell," she said, turning upon him a 
pale face, " is Eunice ill? " 

" She has been, but she is free from pain now. 
What is the matter, Lydia? Thee is as white as a 
ghost." 

" That is just the matter," said Lydia, sinking 
into the nearest chair. " I have seen one." 

Amory reached for his bathrobe, put it on and 
stuck his feet into slippers. " Where is thy ghost? " 
he asked. 

" It was at my window," said Lydia, putting her 
hand to her throat and speaking with diflOLculty. 
" I sat up in bed and looked at it. It was a fright- 
ful thing with shining eyes. There was a light from 
them thrown on the ceiling as well. I could not 
speak nor move, but after a time, which seemed an 
eternity, it vanished. When I had recovered my 
strength I came to thy room only to find thee 
gone." 

" Lydia, thee has had a nightmare," said Amory 
kindly. " Come, I will go back to thy room with 
thee." 

" I ate no meat to-night, merely soup and vege- 
tables and a peach for dessert. It was no night- 
mare." 



272 JOUKNEY'S EITD 

Amory looked at her closely. SometMng had 
evidently frightened her. 

"I will attend to thy ghost, Lydia," he said. 
" Stay here till thee feels calm." 

Amory crossed the hall to Lydia's open door. As 
he expected, there was nothing visible to account 
for her terror. " She is not imaginative,'' he 
thought. " I wonder whether anybody could have 
climbed this portico and showed up a jack-o'-lantern 
or anything of the kind." 

Standing at the open window, a slight sound 
caught his ear and he stopped as though frozen to 
the spot. 

"Lydia's room is above the east parlor," the 
thought flashed through his mind. " That sounds 
like somebody trying to cut glass. I believe the 
burglars are back! Great Scott! and I mustn't 
frighten Aunt Eunice." 

He hurried across the hall to where Lydia still 
sat. " Look here," he said in a hasty whisper, " I 
think somebody is trying to break in down-stairs. 
Go to Aunt Eunice's room, shut her door and don't 
let her suspect anything. Say thee is come to stay 
until I am ready. Now, Lydia, brace up and be a 
sport ! " 

Lydia threw him one look and went. Amory 
seized the telephone, gave the message to the police 
station, took a revolver from his desk and, not wait- 



LYDIA SEES A GHOST 273 

ing for the promised reinforcements, started for 
the front staircase. Half-way down, lie tripped 
and fell with a terrific crash. 

The noise filled the silent house like the sound 
of doom. Lydia emerged at once from Mrs. Eus- 
seirs room. Amory at the foot of the stairs was 
muttering exasperated comments on his clumsiness. 
Fortunately the revolver had not been discharged 
in the fall, but the burglar could not fail to know 
that the house was roused. 

Amory picked himself up, to subside at once into 
a hall chair, aware of a sprained ankle. He could 
only limp to the door to answer the knock of the 
police. 

"We surrounded the house and somebody was 
using a cutter on a window all right enough, but he 
has made his getaway,'' said the captain. 

"Due to my falling down-stairs with noise 
enough to wake the dead," said the disgusted 
Amory. " Just my luck. If that hadn't happened, 
we would have nailed him." 

" Dr. Eussell," began the captain, " somebody is 
after something here and it looks to me as though 
he was going to keep on with his job till he makes 
it. Now the next time you hear anything, telephone 
the station but don't try to get into it yourself. 
Stay up-stairs. Your falling was a piece of ill-luck 
that simply warned the crook. We are wise to the 



274 JOUENEY'S END 

fact that it is the east room which needs watching 
and well go straight there. What's that, 
Tim? " 

" Give it a name," said the patrolman who had 
come around the house and who was holding in 
his hand a strange-looking object. Light came at 
once to Amory. 

" That's a Chinese devil-mask ! " he exclaimed. 
" Well, that explains Lydia's fright." 

" Plain enough that the man climbed the porch 
and looked in her window," commented the captain 
when Amory related Lydia's tale. " If the room 
had been unoccupied, he'd have entered there 
rather than break glass." 

" What on earth does any Chinese want to break 
in here for? " asked Amory. 

" They are a rum lot. Dr. Kussell ; superstitious 
as the devil, too. If we could find out what became 
of the heathen who did the vanishing act in that 
east room we might find out why there have been 
two attempted breaks since then. We'll keep a 
watch the rest of the night. Given your ankle a 
twist, haven't you? You were lucky nothing worse 
happened. It isn't exactly healthy to fall down a 
flight of stairs with a loaded revolver in one hand." 

Amory liimself thought his escape providential 
but still cursed his clumsiness in making the mis- 
step. Having parted with the patrolmen, he pain- 



LYDIA SEES A GHOST 275 

fully climbed to the upper hall, where Lydia re- 
ported Mrs. Eussell sleeping peacefully. 

" That's one thing to be thankful for. And, 
Lydia, thee did see something at thy window." 

"I am glad thee is convinced," said Lydia 
when he explained. " Thee may be a skilful physi- 
cian, Amory, and I think myself thee has gifts in 
that direction, but thee will never convince me that 
the meal I ate last evening could give me night- 
mare. And now, can thee heal thyself? " 

" I shall try jolly hard," replied Amory, limping 
down the hall. "Will thee lie on the couch in 
Aunt Eunice's room, Lydia, since I cannot? I 
don't think she will wake or feel ill again, but some- 
body should be near. And will thee go first to my 
office and bring me a roll of bandage, the two-inch 
width? " 

" I will do both," said Lydia, gliding down the 
stairs like a gray ghost. 

Amory dragged himself into his bathroom, his 
teeth set, and spent the next hour in treating his 
ankle. Having reached the i)oint where he could 
step on it without much pain, he bandaged it and 
went to bed just as the early dawn began to show 
beyond the lighthouse. 

" The last twenty-four hours have not been un- 
eventful," he thought. " I wonder whether I shall 
lead an equally simple life to-day." 



CHAPTER XX 

IN WHICH ELIZABETH IS SUPERSTITIOUS AND AMORY 
IS SCEPTICAL 

AS had been the case with the previous at- 
tempt at burglary, the second was suc- 
ceeded by a period of calm. The next 
morning Amory sent for an electrician and ordered 
a burglar alarm placed on all the lower-floor win- 
dows, a precaution which met with Lydia's full 
approval. 

Mrs. Russell seemed practically herself again 
and gently protested over Amory's expressed inten- 
tion to have the specialist from Boston visit her. 

" It is unnecessary, dear," she said. " I am en- 
tirely satisfied with thee for a physician. And both 
thee and Dr. Camp told me this attack was to be 
expected. His opinion but confirmed thy own 
judgment." 

" I want him to come, Aunt Eunice. Thee is so 
dear to me that I dare not trust myself with the 
whole responsibility. And truly, were thee a 
stranger, I should at this point advise consulting a 

276 



ELIZABETH IS SUPERSTITIOUS 277 

specialist. Thee will not object, since I so much 
wish it? " 

" If thee will be comforted by his further opinion, 
let him come. I am only sorry that my illness 
should sadden thy first joy with Elizabeth, but joy 
and sorrow are very closely mingled in this life. 
My share in thy happiness is so great that other 
things seem trivial. But thee is limping ; what has 
befallen thee? -' 

Amory thought it best to tell her. Mrs. Kussell 
had never been nervous about burglars and she 
would have to know sooner or later, but he omitted 
any mention of the revolver. Instead, he placed the 
emphasis upon the problematic object of the rob- 
bery. 

" I cannot imagine," said his aunt. " There are 
things of value in that room, especially the rugs, 
but Robert once told me that the more valuable 
ones were so unusual that they would be almost as 
difficult for a thief to dispose of as unique jewels. 
Aside from them I can think of nothing to attract 
a burglar. It is not pleasant to think of Journey's 
End being under surveillance, and I do not like thee 
to be in danger of an encounter with despera- 
does." 

" If I continue to fall down-stairs and warn them, 
there will be no encounter. No, my ankle is not at 
all badly sprained and I gave it such prompt treat- 



278 JOURNEY'S END 

ment that it will be practically well by to-morrow. 
I will go and telephone Dr. Camp.'' 

"And ask Elizabeth to come to me, since thee will 
be making calls and cruelly bade me stay in bed. I 
shall be selfish, Amory; I shall want her company 
as before." 

" I shall never be jealous of thee," said Amory 
affectionately. 

" Thee need not be, for I trust thee will have 
many years with Elizabeth where my time is short. 
I am thankful that I have been permitted to see my 
dearest hope for thee on the way to fulfillment. I 
trust her mother will not insist on a long engage- 
ment." 

" I fancy not, but I can see that Elizabeth dreads 
to have the rest of her family come home." 

" She would like to take her love aside and keep 
it for thee and herself alone, and Mrs. Emerson will 
wish the world to know." 

" Mrs. Emerson may not find a busy doctor an 
easy person to boss," said Amory mischie- 
vously. "I see how I can save Elizabeth by ar- 
ranging my engagements to conflict with her 
mother's." 

Mrs. Russell smiled. "Thee must not offend 
Elizabeth's mother," she said. " Patience will be 
necessary until she is thy wife and then thee can do 
more as thee wishes. I do not think Mrs. Emerson 



ELIZABETH IS SUPEKSTITIOUS 2T9 

will find thee the most tractable of sons. Thee will 
get on better with Elizabeth's father. But ask her 
if she will come and sit with me during thy absence 
this morning." 

Next day the specialist came, confirming Amory's 
own conviction that there was no reason to antici- 
pate another immediate attack. One might not 
occur for weeks, but excitement might precipitate 
it at any moment. He would recommend complete 
freedom from anxiety, from agitation either by joy 
or sorrow, and abstinence from all but the most 
moderate exertion. 

" She is a wonderful woman, Dr. Kussell,'' he 
said when the two men had left the big front room 
and were closeted in Amory's offi.ce. " I was ex- 
traordinarily impressed with her when Howland 
brought her to me the first time. Her calm was 
marvelous and equally so her determination that 
you should not know^ of her trouble. Howland told 
me the exact circumstances and when I saw Mrs. 
Eussell, they impressed themselves on me. I do 
not consider her condition immediately critical; 
with care, which she will have, she may live for 
years. The attacks may come more or less fre- 
quently, but may not grow markedly more severe. 
In fact, the development may be extremely slow. I 
have known cases of this type to remain almost 
stationary." 



280 JOUENEY'S END 

He answered a few teclmical questions and tten 
asked a personal one. 

" Dr. Fenwick is a friend of mine. Aren't you 
the young fellow who refused to go into his ofS.ce? " 

" Yes," Amory admitted rather unwillingly. " It 
was a fine offer and I hated to turn it down, but you 
know now why I did it." 

" I see," observed Dr. Camp thoughtfully. " Yes, 
I see. In a conflict between duty and ambition, 
duty won out." 

" Not exactly duty," said Amory, with a serious 
expression on his fine face. " My aunt never 
knew of the offer. Had she known, she would have 
insisted on my accepting it. No, I cannot claim 
that I stayed from duty, for that somehow implies 
that it was grudgingly, but because my staying 
makes all the difference to her." 

"You are a lucky chap," said the older man, 
with real feeling in his voice. "I have an idea 
that you wouldn't have made the record you al- 
ready have if she hadn't put something into you. 
Love and gratitude are none too common in this 
world. Well, you can feel assured that your pres- 
ent treatment is exactly what I should advise, but 
if you want me to look at her again, call me and 
I will come any time. Luncheon? — ^why, if it is 
ready, I will accept your hospitality." 

They lunched alone, since Mrs. Eussell had not 



ELIZABETH IS SUPEESTITIOUS 281 

yet left her room, but the conversation did not 
again become personal. When Dr. Camp went, 
Amory had time only for a brief visit to his aunt 
before his office hour. Bell had shown in several 
patients before he ran up to speak to her. 

He stayed with her but &ve minutes, washed his 
hands in his own room and went down to his office 
ready for his first patient. As he came down-stairs 
he caught a glimpse of something moving in the 
east parlor. The hall was empty and Amory was 
not certain he had seen any one ; he was conscious 
only that with the tail of his eye he detected mo- 
tion. He went at once to the room. 

Just inside the door stood a short man, looking 
about as though in search of some definite thing. 
When Amory entered he turned quickly and Amory 
experienced a distinct shock as he saw that the in- 
truder was a Chinese. 

"Pardon," said the man at once in excellent 
English. " You are Dr. Eussell? I have come to 
consult you. Is it here that I wait or will you see 
me at once? " 

" This is not the reception-room, but if you will 
come into my office I will attend to you immedi- 
ately," said Amory, puzzled to know whether the 
man had really blundered into the wrong room or 
whether he had deliberately left the other. He 
would question Bell later, but no matter how many 



282 JOUENEY'S END 

people had rigMfully preceded this person, he 
would afford him no further excuse for wandering 
about Journey's End. 

The man entered the office at once but gave 
Amory absolutely no opening for any questions nor 
any ground for supposing he had ever been in the 
house before. He was well-dressed and a man of 
education. Amory was more puzzled than ever 
when he rose to show him out, which he did in per- 
son, preferring to close the front door himself upon 
this especial visitor. 

He saw the rest of his patients, giving each his 
courteous and interested attention, but in the bot- 
tom of his mind ran a sort of undercurrent of 
speculation as to the identity of that Chinese and 
the real reason for his visit. The trouble about 
which he had come to consult a doctor was one that 
the average man would have ignored unless it be- 
came more than a temporary discomfort, and yet it 
was enough to provide an excuse for getting into 
Journey's End. Amory was not surprised to learn 
from Bell that the Chinese had been shown into the 
reception-room like all the other patients. He had 
evidently watched a chance to slip into the hall and 
down it to the east parlor, but the opportunity 
proved ill-chosen, since it chanced to be at the mo- 
ment when Amory came on the scene. Bell also 
declared that he was not the foreign gentleman who 



ELIZABETH IS SUPEESTITIOUS 283 

called some weeks previously and presented the 
letter. 

The whole affair seemed no nearer solution and 
Amory really did not know what to think. Next 
day he had an errand which took him to Boston, 
and during his drive up and back, he considered the 
question from all sides. There were a number of 
Chinese in Freeport, mostly laundrymen, with the 
keepers of two restaurants, one of which was popu- 
lar with the set of fashionable young people, but 
they had always been law-abiding and kept very 
much by themselves. Amory did not think they in- 
cluded any one so well educated as his caller of the 
previous afternoon. 

That night he dined with the Emersons and after 
coffee he and Elizabeth wandered into the garden 
of Journey's End and soon found themselves near 
the lilac walk and the seat of the little lions. 
Amory's ankle was practically well, betraying the 
injury only by a step less buoyant than customary. 

Having sought their usual resting-place, Amory 
placed a tiny package in Elizabeth's hand. 

" The ring? " she asked, guessing from its shape. 
*• I want you to open it and put it on my finger and 
I shall keep my eyes shut until it is there." 

Amory laughed and opened the box. Lifting her 
hand, he kissed it gently and slipped the ring upon 
her finger. " Look now," he said. 



284 JOURNEY'S END 

Elizabeth opened her eyes and gave a gasp. 
" Oh, I never saw anything like that ! '^ she ex- 
claimed and then was silent. 

" Do you like it as well as a diamond? " 

" Oh, much better ! It is wonderful. Marion's 
diamond isn't half so beautiful. And a platinum 
ring ! Oh, Amory ! " 

"I have always liked sapphires," said Amory, 
taking her hand on his palm, " and I love blue for 
you. It is the color of truth and of hope and of the 
heaven above us." 

" This is the loveliest stone I ever saw," said 
Elizabeth sincerely. " It looks like a fringed gen- 
tian set in hoarfrost." 

" That is precisely what came into my mind when 
I saw it," exclaimed Amory, " a remembrance of a 
chill September morning when I found the gentians 
in a frosty meadow. I thought you would see the 
resemblance^^' 

"Amory," said Elizabeth sometime later, "you 
have never told me why you remembered the blue 
dress I wore that evening at the Red Cross car- 
nival." 

" No," agreed Amory, smiling. " You see, those 
unpleasant idiots in the motor-launch precipitated 
matters so that all my carefully laid plans went 
overboard. But why should I call them either un- 
pleasant or idiotic since they really helped me out? 



ELIZABETH IS SUPERSTITIOUS 285 

I will forgive them at once. Yes, I will forgive 
them and I will tell you about the blue dress. You 
remember that I impolitely overheard the palmist 
give you an excellent general character, and insinu- 
ate that you were going to have a rocky road to 
travel, and warn you of some vague danger." 

"I'm not so sure about the character, and it 
makes me think of Mother engaging a cook, but the 
rest is all straight," admitted Elizabeth, laughing. 

" When you had gone and I showed her my palms 
she looked at them attentively and presently gave 
me a keen glance. I am accustomed to note things 
closely and I observed that it was one of real sur- 
prise, not to say distress. Then she asked if I knew 
the young girl who had just gone out. I said I did 
not, that I had never seen you before, and never ex- 
pected to see you again. And I didn't then, Queen 
Bess. 

"Whereupon the palmist informed me that the 
same disaster that threatened you also threatened 
me." 

" Good gracious ! " said Elizabeth. " And do you 
believe her? " 

" Neither then nor now. A scientist is the least 
superstitious of persons, and while I admit that 
certain lines in one's palm, certain physical forma- 
tions, may indicate probable tendencies or types of 
character — for example, she guessed from the shape 



286 JOUKNEY'S END 

of my Hands that I was a doctor — I have absolutely 
no faith that she could in any degree whatever 
foretell what was to happen to you or to me." 

" But it was odd, to say the least." 

" Yes, I will admit that, and also that it inter- 
ested me suffi-ciently to try to take a second look at 
the girl who was to be involved in my affairs " 

"But, Amory," interrupted Elizabeth. "It is 
coming true! We, who never saw each other be- 
fore, have met and become acquainted and engaged 
to be married. Don't say it isn't true, because it 
is taking place this minute ! " 

"But the palmist has nothing to do with it," 
laughed Amory. " Doubtless it was written in the 
book of fate, — in the stars, — ^that I should love you, 
but not on our palms, Elizabeth." 

" I'm not so sure," she persisted. " But go on. 
You tried to find the blue dress?" 

" I did, and could not, for you must have left the 
hall. Your face had been in shadow and I had no 
really good look at you, but I remembered your 
dress. To begin with, it was a color I am fond 
of — you must always have a gentian dress — and I 
thought about it until it became almost a personal- 
ity in itself. It is so yet." 

Elizabeth was silent for a moment. Then she 
turned Amory's hand palm upward beside her own. 

" I don't know the first thing about palmistry," 



ELIZABETH IS SUPEKSTITIOUS 287 

she observed, studying the markings, " and so far 
as I can see, the lines are not at all alike." 

" I see some resemblances, but many differences, 
though I do not know what the lines are supposed 
to signify." 

" I know it is silly to think it means much, but 
some of it is strange, Amory. She said there would 
be one strong influence for good in my life and that 
it would come from a woman. Think of Aunt 
Eunice ! " 

" There seem coincidences and I will admit that 
some of the things she said were odd, but let us not 
attach too much importance to chance confirma- 
tions. I believe, with Henley, that we are the 
masters of our own fates." 

"And never the victims of circumstance? " asked 
Elizabeth curiously. 

"We may be battered by circumstances, but 
never really conquered unless we ourselves give 
up." 

" I can't imagine your giving up," sighed Eliza- 
beth. "Whatever happened you would get the 
better of it. But what do you think is meant by 
the disaster that threatens us both? " 

Amory looked at her, started to remonstrate se- 
riously and then changed his mind. " Merely our 
getting engaged ! " he declared whimsically. " The 
great danger was that you would refuse me ! " 



288 JOURNEY'S END 

"We will let it go at that," agreed Elizabeth 
laughingly, but she was silent for a moment as an- 
other bit of advice from that past interview flashed 
into her mind. "^And when Love comes to call 
thee, arise and follow fast.' 

" I won't be silly and superstitious," she went on. 
" Has Aunt Eunice seen my precious ring? " 

" She has not. It was for your eyes first." 

"Of course I must keep it out of sight until 
Mother gets home and the engagement is an- 
nounced, but I shall wear it whenever we are alone 
together and put it on a chain about my neck the 
rest of the time. I had a letter from Mother to- 
day. She was pleased, but, of course, warned me 
not to let any one suspect until she comes." 

Elizabeth spoke guardedly, for she had not cared 
for the letter. Yet in her own way Mrs. Emerson 
loved her daughter and was unfeignedly glad that 
from the standpoint of her world Elizabeth had 
done so well. Elizabeth appreciated the affection 
underlying the congratulation but disliked greatly 
the tenor of the message. Neither sister had yet 
written, and Elizabeth decided that if the opening 
words of Dot's letter showed her still in the same 
mind about Amory, it should remain both unread 
and unanswered. Marion would at least be kind. 

" I had a note from your mother myself," said 
Amory, " a pleasant one to receive. I'm glad they 



ELIZABETH IS SUPERSTITIOUS 289 

are willing I should have you. I hope your sisters 
will like me." 

"You'll get on with Marion," and then she 
changed the subject abruptly. " I want to show 
my gentian to Aunt Eunice. She will love it ! " 

''Like it, you mean," teased Amory. "Aunt Eu- 
nice, you know, keeps the nice little word only for 
her children, for you and for me." 



CHAPTER XXI 

IN WHICH CAROLINE DISCOURSES ON DEVILS AND 
AMORY AND ELIZABETH VISIT THE DUNES 

CONGRATULATIONS, dear Amory," wrote 
Caroline, ^^from tlie bottom of my heart, 
and thanks for your admission that she 
parts her hair in the middle, as you will remember 
I told you she would do! Never mind, brother 
dear ; I'll teach her another way to arrange it." 

" Oh, will you? " said Amory to himself. " I 
wouldn't bet on it, Carol." 

"Honestly, I am awfully pleased and wild to 
meet her. I hope she is exactly your kind, Amory. 
Somebody who knows the Emersons told me that 
the girls were rather speedy, but, of course, it may 
have been the others. You and Aunt Eunice be- 
tween you could love a black sheep into being a 
woolly white lamb, and the sheep wouldn't recog- 
nize itself either, only I'd hate to have you get bit- 
ten during the process. You see, I think any girl 
who wins your love is a mighty lucky person, 
so I want her to be what you think she is. I'm 
surprised that she isn't a Friend, — ^what will 

290 



cakoliot: discoukses 291 

you do with a worldly Episcopalian like me? 
Now, do be married this fall, and 111 come to Free- 
port and wear my newest gown, which is a great 
gown, I can tell you. Perhaps I'll come anyway, 
just to get acquainted with the girl who is to be my 
sister. I don't know much from you, except that 
she is the most charming person in the world, and 
that, dear Amory, is merely what every boy who 
falls in love thinks ! That Aunt Eunice loves her 
gives me a better idea of her, because she must be 
some girl to win the little Quaker aunt's approval. 

" I, too, am at a loss to explain the mysterious 
appearance and disappearance of that man who 
presented my letter and yet was not Yin. How un- 
fortunate that only a stupid servant saw him, for 
Yin is quite adorable and you would have recog- 
nized him from my description. Yin has been here 
again this past Sunday, telegraphed to know if he 
might come. Jermain had his own guests and I 
was charmed at the idea of seeing my little Celes- 
tial again. I was going to write Celestial cherub, 
but feared you might think me profane. 

" Well, Yin appeared and I saw at once that he 
had something on his mind, so I proceeded to take 
it off, being an adept at that. By the way, I will 
give Elizabeth some points on managing a husband. 
The main thing with every man — and you are no 
exception — is to let him think he is pleasing him- 



292 JOUKNEY'S END 

self. It works with all and equally well. I made 
Yin think the one thing on earth that interested me 
was his troubles and inclined a sympathetic ear. I 
heard much that I will not scandalize you by pass- 
ing on. But I discovered that Yin had come with 
a purpose and a fixed one, too. He brought with 
him a magnificent necklace of old silver and emer- 
alds, a truly gorgeous thing, which he laid literally 
at my feet, praying in return that I would permit 
him the loan — ^he asked only that — of my jade and 
pearl pendant. 

"At this point he became so tangled in languages 
that I was obliged to unwind him like a kitten from 
a ball of yarn, but I finally learned that he wished 
to try an experiment with it, after which he would 
return it. The necklace was no loan, however, but 
a free gift in return for the privilege of borrowing 
the pendant. 

" I was interested, for this was a new experience. 
And how strikingly oriental ! Had you or any 
other nice American boy wished to play with that 
pendant, you would frankly have asked to borrow 
it without depositing — do you call it collateral? 
But Yin looked at the matter differently. 

" I toyed with the idea for a time before dashing 
his hopes by the information that I could not accept 
so valuable a gift from any man but my brother or 
my husband. Not that Jermain would care a rap, 



CAROLINE DISCOURSES 293 

but it is well to keep within the conventions. Some 
time I may have need of them. I told him that I 
could not accept the necklace, but that I would 
willingly lend him the pendant were it in my power 
to do so, but it had unaccountably disappeared. 

"At this, Yin had a fit of some nature, which 
might have interested you as a physician. It was 
a fittish fit and sounded terribly profane, though 
being in Chinese I understood nothing but the tone, 
which was exceedingly loud and deep. He seemed 
upset. 

" It really was the truth. The pendant has dis- 
appeared and neither I nor my maid can recollect 
anything about it. I did not often wear it, and 
may only have lost it, but I discovered that it was 
gone just about the time you wrote me of the 
Chinese visitor who went up in blue smoke in the 
east parlor. I have no real reason for thinking so, 
but it would not surprise me if a servant I dis- 
missed about that time stole it. 

"At any rate it was not here for Yin to borrow, 
and he took its loss seriously to heart. He disar- 
ranged his hair, and that, for a Chinese, is going 
far. I am interested in that pendant or amulet as 
Yin calls it, and in his theory about it which I 
wrote you before. Do you suppose that Yin has 
located the devil and wants to boss it? He would 
tell me nothing more and probably the next time I 



294 JOUKNEY'S END 

see him will deny tliat lie ever had any interest in 
the thing. I only hope on his next visit he won't 
bring his demon with him, leashed, so to speak, like 
a pet dog. 

" With your scientific mind and Quaker training, 
you have doubtless been curling your upper lip 
most frightfully over my fancies, but cheer up, 
Amory, there are queer things and queer doings in 
this world. I could tell you tales, but if I did, you 
would say words Aunt Eunice never taught you 
and tear up this letter. But I wish we might locate 
that pendant and its accompanying devil. Perhaps 
said devil is busy bossing affairs at Washington. 
Do you think your attempted burglaries have any- 
thing to do with it? If that demon has taken up 
its residence at Journey's End, better exorcise it 
at once, though it probably isn't there, for no evil 
spirit could exist comfortably under the same roof 
as Aunt Eunice. 

" To change the subject, won't you motor up to 
Cornwall and bring Aunt Eunice and Elizabeth for 
a week-end or longer? Let me know when and I'll 
cancel all the people Jermain has invited and edit 
my own list. I'd love to have you come and I'll be 
as good as gold if you will. I won't corrupt Eliza- 
beth; I want her to love me and perhaps she will 
because I am your sister. I care a great deal about 
your marriage being happy, Amory ; it makes such a 



CAROLmE DISCOURSES 295 

difference to one's life and there aren't many girls 
good enough for you. Do come if you can and send 
me Elizabeth's picture if you can't. Lucky Eliza- 
beth! 

" Lovingly, 

" Caroline.^^ 

Amory read the letter twice and vevy thought- 
fully. Caroline's epistles always made him sorry 
for her, for he invariably read below their surface 
flippancy, as she doubtless meant he should do. 
This especial letter, with its affectionate messages, 
touched him in a tender spot, for she had never 
before admitted quite so openly what he knew to be 
the fact, that her marriage was unhappy. 

" I wish Carol had some children," Amory 
thought. " That might make a difference, for Jer- 
main is fond of kids. I saw him with one once." 

A rather wistful look crossed his face for a sec- 
ond as he continued to dwell on his sister's let- 
ter. 

" Of course I can't take Elizabeth there even if 
Aunt Eunice was in shape for such a jaunt. We 
should have the whole town talking. Send her a 
picture? I can do that, only it doesn't give the 
least idea of Elizabeth's vivacity and the way she 
sparkles and changes. 

" Poor Carol ! I wonder if it was fair to sepa- 



296 JOURNEY'S END 

rate us wlien we were children and bring us up so 
differently. And yet what else could they do when 
our parents distinctly directed it to be done? Sup- 
pose I had been the one who went to Grandmother 
Payne? I'll bet I wouldn't have studied medicine 
nor be plugging away in Freeport, diagnosing 
mumps and operating on ingrowing toe-nails. And 
it's equally certain that if Carol had grown up in 
Journey's End she would never in this life have 
married Jermain Chittick! And yet, as things 
were, nothing in heaven or earth could have pre- 
vented her from marrying him. 

"As for demons and amulets — bosh! She is as 
bad or worse than Elizabeth with her palmist whom 
she more than half believes. Carol could * tell me 
things.' I'll warrant she can and I'll bet she has 
been dabbling in matters she shouldn't, and I wish 
I had a chance to read her a brotherly lecture. I'd 
blow her sky-high. Poor old Carol ! What a mess 
her life does look and she's only two years older 
than I. I wish I could help her." 

For some moments Amory sat wrapped in 
thought, his face showing no indication that he had 
arrived at any solution of Caroline's problems, but 
he finally put the letter aside and took up another, 
one already opened. 

When he laid it down his face was yet more 
grave, for it contained his third extremely flatter- 



CAKOLINE DISCOURSES 297 

ing offer from an older medical man to accept a 
position on an institutional stafif — an opening tliat 
promised a great future. 

" It is easy enough to decide anything," thought 
Amory soberly, " especially when one is under the 
fresh influence of a big resolve and in a moment of 
intense feeling, but gosh ! how hard it is to stick to 
that decision on the dead level of every day. And 
to be misjudged, too, for they do misjudge me. Of 
course. Camp knows now since I told him, and I 
suppose I was a fool to let it out. And as for Aunt 
Eunice^s money, I don't care a hang what she does 
with it, and there may not be any left, for I know 
the dear saint gives it away right and left. I'm 
thankful that whatever restraint has to be used is 
put on by John Howland, not by me. I don't even 
know how much Uncle Robert left her, though it 
must have been considerable judging from the 
amount he set aside for that trust, — odd thing, that 
trust. I do want Journey's End sometime, and 
that I know she means to give me. She must have 
a good income, for it costs a lot to keep the place 
up, and the house and grounds are always in perfect 
condition. I'd willingly share expenses, but she 
seemed so hurt when I suggested it that I don't 
dare say any more. Funny how she can make me 
feel about nine years old again if she is displeased 
with me! 



298 JOUENEY'S END 

" I have enoughL of my own to run the house when 
it is mine and to take care of Elizabeth as she is 
used to living and, of course, my practice is grow- 
ing. But it takes courage to turn down an offer 
like this. I ought to have more surgical work; I 
don't want to get rusty. We ought to have a hos- 
pital in Freeport; it's a town disgrace that there 
isn't one. Then I'd get a chance, but I think I can 
pull some strings so I might get a look-in, say once 
a week, at some place in Boston. I had some 
mighty valuable experience in France and I hate to 
let it go by the board. Well ! I made up my mind 
to stay in Freeport, and stay I shall. I put my 
hand to the plough and I won't quit, but I wish I 
had grace enough to do so without looldng back. 
Aunt Eunice needs me and that ought to be enough. 
It shall he V 

Amory slapped down the tempting letter and 
wrote a courteous refusal. Then he filed away 
both it and Caroline's and became absorbed in a 
medical journal. He was yet reading when a tap 
came on his door and Elizabeth looked in. He rose 
with an exclamation. 

" Yes ! " she said, with mock severity, " I invited 
you to have supper with me on the dunes and see 
the moon come up — our second full moon, Amory! 
And you never came near me, so I came to see what 
is keeping you."' 



CAROLINE DISCOURSES 299 

She picked up the journal he had hurriedly 
tossed aside. " Gracious ! ^' she said. " It looks 
fearfully difficult. Amory, do you mean to say you 
read medical things in French f '' 

Amory laughed at her surprised face. " No man 
ever gets into Johns Hopkins who doesn't both read 
and speak French and German, really read and 
speak them, I mean, not a mere dictionary ac- 
quaintance. There is my diploma on the wall, 
little lady.'' 

Elizabeth laid down the paper with a sigh. " Do 
you really like to do it? " she asked. 

" I speak French nearly as well as English, read 
it just as easily, so that isn't any hardship. As for 
German, that is essential, too, because although 
they are beasts, they are scientific beasts, and it is 
important to know what they are doing, and only 
the smallest possible percentage ever gets trans- 
lated into English. You will see me reading these 
papers rather often." 

Elizabeth still looked awe-struck. "Amory," she 
said, and her question was serious, " aren't you 
really rather unusual as a doctor? That is, are all 
men who start in to practise as well equipped? " 

"Why, personally they probably are," said 
Amory, taking her as seriously. " Not all medical 
schools have so high a standard as Johns Hopkins, 
and it is one of the more expensive. That is where 



300 JOURNEY'S END 

I had an advantage, that I could go there. I am 
also fortunate to have had such experience during 
the war and afterwards, and, of course, I can make 
a start now unhampered by the lack of books and 
instruments which many young doctors can't afford 
to buy right off. I don't believe I am unusual in 
any way, Elizabeth, except that the question of 
money has never bothered me." 

" I think that is just where you are unusual. 
Not many young men who didn't have to work 
would have chosen an occupation that meant so 
much preparation." 

"You didn't know my Uncle Robert," said 
Amory, half laughing. " He was determined that 
I should make my life amount to something. I 
didn't realize it when I was growing up as I do 
now, but looking back I can see that his whole will 
was set on influencing me to do something worth 
while. I was just through my training when 
Uncle Robert died, and though he knew I intended 
to realize his hopes for me, he didn't live to see me 
do it. I wish he had. Perhaps where he is he 
knows." 

" Of course he does," said Elizabeth bluntly. 

Amory looked at her with a smile. " I hope so," 
he said. " Then you can stand the French and 
German papers? " 

" Yes," said Elizabeth. " But shall we start for 



CAKOLINE DISCOURSES 301 

the dunes? And will you let me drive you in my 
car?" 

Amory agreed and ran up to his room while 
Elizabeth talked with Aunt Eunice. When he was 
ready they went to the Emerson garage and Eliza- 
beth took out her little roadster. It was painted 
brightly and had a slightly rakish air which amused 
Amory. It looked as though of its own accord it 
would willingly snort defiance at traffic regula- 
tions. 

Their plan was to approach the dunes at a differ- 
ent point than Freeport, and the little car soon cov- 
ered the few miles. Following Amory's directions, 
Elizabeth drove down a beach road edging the sand- 
hills until the faint track ended in a gravel pit. 

" Shall we be out of sight of the car? " asked 
Elizabeth, taking her engine key. 

" Some distance away, but people seldom come 
here, and I think the car will be perfectly safe." 

" I'll put on its red bracelet and then we'll be 
sure," said Elizabeth, diving into the tool-box and 
handing Amory a big red padlock, fitting the front 
wheel. 

" I must get one of these," said Amory, snapping 
it on. " But if I do I shall be sure to forget it is 
on and what would happen then? " 

Elizabeth made a quick gesture expressive of 
ripping. " Good-night to the mud-guard," she said 



302 JOUKNEY'S END 

blithely. " Oh, isn't it wonderful here? I believe 
the dunes have an air all their own." 

Amory took the lunch and they climbed a hill 
scantily covered with sparse coarse grass. From 
its top they looked upon pathless rolling heaps of 
sand swept clean and smooth by the wind. Not a 
footprint showed in any direction. 

" People hardly ever visit this part of the dunes,'' 
said Amory, commenting on the fact. " I have 
sometimes been here for a whole day without seeing 
any one." 

" You seem to know where you are going," said 
Elizabeth as he set off without hesitation along one 
of the ridges. 

" I won't lose you," said Amory, putting his free 
arm about her. " I know exactly where I want to 
take you, and when we reach it you will think that 
you are on Robinson Crusoe's island or somewhere 
the foot of man has never trod. Will you follow? " 

"Anywhere," said Elizabeth, and then she added 
shyly, " Even if it is ^ beyond the night, across the 
day.' " 

" Oh, you do read Tennyson, even though you 
think Arthur was a prig? " 

"Did Aunt Eunice tell you that?" laughed 
Elizabeth. " I like the happy princess better. I 
appreciate how she felt." 

Amory made an affectionate response and they 



CAEOLINE DISCOUKSES 303 

wandered on among the mysterious shifting moun- 
tains created by the many-fingered sea. Change- 
less and yet ever-changing they stand, advancing 
imperceptibly with relentless, cruel destruction of 
all land vegetation, though possessing uncanny 
plants of their own, sea-rosemary, beach-grass, bay- 
berry, silvery-stemmed shrubs like ghostly petrified 
seaweed. 

Sometimes the long sweeps of bare gleaming 
sand rose to crest-like peaks hard enough to walk 
upon without trace. Within their circles as they 
topped the crests Amory and Elizabeth found tiny 
ponds gleaming like turquoises, but set as no 
earthly gem and possessing no earthly color, since 
the heaven above lent them hue. 

Absolute silence holds the dunes, the silence 
of living death, for the dunes live, move and have 
their being and yet are death. The scream of an 
occasional gull, ghostly cloud-shadows trailing the 
white hills, the incessant roar of breakers alone dis- 
tracted the attention of the two. Not even their 
absorption in each other prevented their perception 
of the mighty dormant force about them. 

Finally Amory stopped and looked expectantly 
at Elizabeth. They stood where one of the sand 
mountains dipped slightly to show a glimpse of 
blue water to the left ; in the hollow behind, a jew- 
eled lake reflected the sky ; before them lay a lonely 



304 JOUKNEY'S END 

stretch of beach with sullen thunder of crashing 
waves. Not a trace of human life was visible, not 
even the smoke of a passing steamer. A single 
sandpiper scuttled along the deserted shore. 

Elizabeth did not disappoint him. She drew a 
long breath, waved both hands with the same ges- 
ture that had attracted his attention on Clam Is- 
land and lifted them and her face toward the sky. 
Amory sat down on the edge of the dune where 
he could see both ocean and lake. Presently Eliza- 
beth came and knelt behind him, putting both arms 
about his neck and her cheek against his. For a 
long time they were silent while the sea-wind blew 
through their hair. 

" I think they like us, Amory," said Elizabeth at 
length. 

" The dune spirits, you mean? " 
" You said you were not superstitious." 
" Nor am I. But the dunes are alive and very 
sensitive. Haven't you felt them breathing during 
this time we have been so still? Once, years ago, 
I came here alone and after an hour or so I was 
quite sure that only a thin veil prevented me from 
seeing the spirits that live just over the crest of the 
next hill. I followed half the afternoon and, 
though I never quite caught up, I could hear them 
laugh with fun. And once, very far away, I heard 
the sound of their fairy pipes. People come here — 



CAKOLIJSTE DISCOUESES 305 

I liave known them to — ^who see nothing but desert 
wastes and desolate sand. That is because they 
are not in tune with the frisky spirits. I knew 
they would bid you welcome." 

" They are mischievous spirits," said Elizabeth, 
smiling at his fancy. "Once one led me into a 
quicksand where I left a shoe." 

" And didn't you hear him chuckle as you stepped 
out of it? That is the only trick they play, and 
that was before they really knew you. You 
wouldn't be led astray this afternoon." 

"Are you hungry? " asked Elizabeth after a time. 
" I am." 

Amory assented and they ate their lunch, Amory 
gravely pouring out a little lemonade as a libation 
to the local deity of the place. Then they were 
silent again, absorbed in the wonderful purple 
lights that flickered and changed on the surface of 
the hills as the sun set, and the sand grew pink, 
green or violet with the altering rays. Even after 
the sun vanished the shifting colors stayed. 

" This is one of the most wonderful things I ever 
saw," said Elizabeth when the dusk finally fell, the 
colors blended into gray and the little lake turned 
to steel. "I can hardly believe my eyes. Have 
you brought many people to see it? " 

" You are the first and only girl. Uncle Robert 
has been here with me, and the boys, of course. 



306 JOURNEY'S END 

Putnam brought his mother, and she likes it as 
much as we. Aunt Eunice never came; it would 
be too hard a walk and I am not sure she would 
approve of the dune spirits," he ended mischie- 
vously. 

" But your uncle did? " 

"Approve them? Well, I would not go so far 
as to say that, but he smiled when I told him of 
them. Aunt Eunice never approved of fairy tales ; 
Uncle Robert always tolerated my fancies." 

" I wish I might have known him, but he died 
just about the time we came to Freeport. That 
portrait of him has such a fine face. He must have 
been a remarkable person." 

"A personality as well as a person," said Amory 
thoughtfully. "It seems as though I miss him 
more every week I am in Freeport. I find myself 
thinking that Uncle Robert is the one to tell me 
whether to do this or that, and then it comes over 
me afresh that he isn't here to consult. Not that 
he was ever given to bossing me ; rather, he tried to 
make me think my problems out for myself, but at 
a critical moment or when I honestly didn't know 
what to do, he never failed me. And he had a calm 
way of setting me straight that was masterly. I 
remember once I had been criticizing somebody 
without mercy and Uncle Robert let me have my 
say. Then he looked at me over his glasses. 



CAKOLINE DISCOUESES 307 

* Amoiy/ he said, ^ if thee cannot make allowances 
for other people, thee has not made the most of 
thine own opportunities.' Amory came off his high 
horse with a thud/' 

"His portrait looks as though he might have 
been severe," said Elizabeth, smiling at the story. 

" He wasn't. I stood more in awe of Aunt Eu- 
nice, and yet he had his own methods of dealing 
with me. I remember once that I had an attack of 
swelled head and thought myself pretty important. 
Uncle Robert brought a book from his study and 
asked me to read aloud to him, and I did so during 
several evenings. The book was a series of popular 
lectures on astronomy. Before I finished it I was 
aware that I was a ver^ small and insignificant 
person in a world that in itself was of no. especial 
importance, and knew it without being told in so 
many words. I am glad to remember now that I 
admitted as much to Uncle Robert. And, Eliza- 
beth, isn't the immensity of the dunes and the ocean 
like that of the stars and the sky? " 

" There are times," admitted Elizabeth, " when I 
feel as though I never wanted to dance nor do any- 
thing frivolous again, and this is one of them. But 
I can't always feel that way. You mustn't stay too 
much on the heights, Amory, for I shall have to 
come down sometimes." 

" It is true that our daily life has to be down on 



308 JOURNEY'S END 

the level," said Amory. " It is enough, isn't it, if 
we know the paths to reach the heights when we 
need their help? I'll help you frivol when you feel 
like doing so, my Elizabeth, but we won't forget the 
way to the things that are bigger than ourselves. 
Ah, here comes the moon ! " 



CHAPTEE XXn 

IN WHICH ELIZABETH LOSES SOMETHING IMPORTANT 

WHEN the two reluctantly started home- 
ward the moon was over an hour high. 
Color no longer touched the dunes, only 
chiaroscuro, shadows so black and sharp-cut that 
they looked like velvet ; sheer stark reflected light. 

" It looks now like an oriental drawing," com- 
mented Elizabeth. " IVe always longed to see the 
sand-hills by night. I did start to come once on the 
beach road nearer town, but I no sooner stopped 
my car than I was afraid to go alone, so I went 
back." 

"It isn't a place for you without me," said 
Amory. Having put on their sweaters and eaten 
their luncheon, they were unimpeded now except 
by a thermos bottle, and walked with clasped hands 
swinging between them. 

" This is the seventeenth of August," said Eliza- 
beth. "Let's remember the date and come every 
year on this day. And sometime I want most aw- 
fully to go on a cruise in the Whitewing, a real one, 
I mean, down along the Maine coast. Will you 
take me?" 

309 



310 JOURNEY'S END 

" On our wedding journey if you'll marry me by 
the first of September. I wouldn't risk the weather 
after the fifteenth. Do, Queen Bess, that's a bully 
idea! Come on, be a sport. Let's get married 
next week and let them make all the row they want 
and then sneak down through the garden and sail 
out to sea." 

"Mother won't let me," sighed Elizabeth. 
"There will have to be any amount of fuss and 
bother that you will hate and which will make me 
furious. I shall be in a horrid state of mind when 
Mother begins what she thinks are necessary prepa- 
rations. I wish we could have only Aunt Eunice 
and Dad, yes,- Billy and Marion, and your sister 
and the Averys, and just be married quietly and 
then go away in the Whiteioing. I'd probably be 
the first girl in Massachusetts who ever went on a 
wedding journey in a middy blouse ! No such luck, 
Amory; I know exactly what is before us and I 
shall be as cross as two sticks. I give you fair warn- 
ing." 

" But I thought a girl always had her wedding 
just as she wanted." 

"Elizabeth Emerson won't. Mother won't be- 
lieve that I would really prefer it very simple; 
she'll tell me that my ideas are sweet but quite un- 
suitable, and then go on telephoning the confec- 
tioners and the florist and heaven knows who ! No, 



ELIZABETH LOSES SOMETHING 311 

I shaU have to let Mother do as she likes with me 
till I am married, but after that I am going to be- 
long just to you and Aunt Eunice and Dad/' 

" I can stand anything so long as it ends that 
way, but when will you marry me if not next 
week? '' 

"I don't know, Amory," said Elizabeth, very 
hesitatingly. "I — I won't make it longer than 
Mother decides, — that is, I think I won't, but — it 
frightens me to think of being married. This is so 
lovely now, this part of our life; I almost wish it 
need never end. Sometimes I feel so helpless and 
afraid " She stopped abruptly. 

" Dear," said Amory tenderly, " no matter how 
much we love each other before we are married, it 
can't possibly be so much as it will be afterwards. 
I know a doctor's wife has to share his responsi- 
bilities, and it's true that I shall often be absorbed 
in my work or have to leave you at a moment's 
notice. But we will snatch every chance to run off 
together and play. Your life shall have no burdens 
that either love or money can prevent. And of all 
men, a doctor ought to be a considerate husband. 
I promise you to be that, Queen Bess." 

Elizabeth stopped short, with her face turned 
from him. T\Tien she looked at him again the 
tears stood in her eyes. 

" Oh, Amory," she said, with some difficulty, " I 



312 JOUKNEY'S END 

didn't suppose a man could understand — I didn't 
suppose one could love a girl like that ! '' 

After a little they went on again, breasting the 
hills that lay between them and the place they had 
left the car. On topping the last rise they were 
surprised to come upon footprints showing that 
some one else had passed that way. 

" Odd," commented Amory. " Perhaps some 
artist was out after color effects. It's most un- 
usual to meet anybody on this side of the penin- 
sula." 

" There he is now, — see, across on the second 
ridge toward land." 

" Looks like a boy," said Amory, " and we shall 
meet if we keep the same relative direction. If it 
is one I shall ask his name and hail him as a kindred 
spirit. Are you getting tired? " 

" Not a bit. I could keep on indefinitely and I 
hate to go home. Was there ever such a summer 
before? " 

"Not for us!" said Amory, waving his hand 
toward the sea, now withdrawing toward distant 
horizons, " but I suppose there are benighted people 
who liked past seasons better. To each his own. 
That is no boy ; he is merely a small man." 

" He has left his car near ours," said Elizabeth 
the next moment. " Let's go slowly so he can leave 
first." 



ELIZABETH LOSES SOMETHING 313 

Accordingly they delayed yet more, permitting 
the little man to descend the slope before them, but 
he had some trouble with his engine and just got 
it started when they reached the top of the last hill. 
Elizabeth turned away to the sea, but Amory^s at- 
tention was attracted by the stranger in the car. 

" Look, Elizabeth ! '' he said, " look at this man 
and see if you don't think he's a foreigner." Amory 
spoke in a whisper and touched her shoulder to 
attract her attention. " Gosh ! he is a Chinese ! " 

" He certainly is," agreed Elizabeth. The moon- 
light fell full on the unmistakable oriental features 
of the man in the car. 

" Come on, let's take a look at him," said Amory, 
starting down the hill to where the engine was fit- 
fully turning. As he reached the machine he looked 
steadily at its occupant, curious to know whether 
he should recognize his former patient. So far as 
he could tell, the man was a stranger and he passed 
with a courteous " Fine night, isn't it? " 

" You bet," came the slangy answer in crisp tones 
from a dapper little Chinese who looked at Amory 
quite as closely in his turn. "Which way to 
town? " he added. 

" Turn to your left on reaching the highway." 

" I thank you. Good-night," with a precise bow 
toward Elizabeth who followed at a slight distance. 

"No, I never saw that chap before," observed 



314 JOUKNEY'S END 

Amory as tlie car snorted into the distance, " but 
it seems as thougli I am haunted by slant-eyed 
Chinese! Never particularly noticed them before, 
never met many before this summer, and now they 
crop up on every side like a regular pest. Well, 
Queen Bess, give me the key to this red bracelet." 

Elizabeth put her hand in the pocket of her 
smock, only to draw it out with a gasp of dismay. 

"Lost it on the dunes? My fault. I should 
have offered to carry it in a safer place than 
that.'' 

"Yes, IVe lost it," said Elizabeth hysterically. 
" I ought to have put it on the ring with my engine 
key. It's no use to look for it. I have a duplicate 
at home but what good is it? Oh, what a fool I 
am!" 

She sat down on the running-board divided be- 
tween laughter and dismay, but the former won, 
since her companion exhibited no impatience. 

" What an Elizabeth ! " he said, making her a 
low bow and then looking after the vanishing car. 
" Pity that we didn't discover it before our heathen 
friend was beyond hearing. No doubt he would 
have given us a lift to town." 

" What can we do? " asked Elizabeth helplessly. 

Amory examined the padlocked wheel. " I can 
deflate the tire," he said, " enough to turn the lock 
around so that the point is inside the rim and then 



ELIZABETH LOSES SOMETHLNG 315 

pump up the tire. We could drive that way, but 
it would be bumpy and we'd be stopped the instant 
a policeman spotted us. Hard on the tire, too." 

" I don't care about that." 

" We shall certainly be stopped if we try it, and 
might find it difficult to explain. It's a heavenly 
evening and personally I'd like nothing better than 
to walk home, but we must see about the car. You 
don't want it left here all night. 

" Let's walk back to where the beach road cuts 
the peninsula," he went on, " and find a house with 
a telephone. Could you tell somebody where the 
key is ? Is there any one who could bring it to us ? " 

" I don't know where Father is this evening. He 
would come if he has to, though he hates to drive 
and hardly ever takes the wheel. How late is it? " 

" Just ten." 

"I'm afraid the chauffeur will be gone. We'll 
try to telephone and if we can't get Dad there is 
nothing to do but let the car stay where it is. Could 
you drive me out early? " 

" As early as you say." 

" It would have to be very early for I shouldn't 
want anybody to find the car. It is registered in 
my name and I'd hate to have the police get hold 
of it." 

Elizabeth emptied the sand from her shoes and 
they set off along the lonely cart-path skirting 



316 JOUKNEY'S END 

the dunes, over slippery grass and sliding sand. 
Walking became easier when they reached the more 
used road, but they passed several houses before 
finding one that showed both a light and a telephone 
connection. As they approached it there came the 
fretful wail of a baby. 

Amory rang the bell and a tired-looking young 
woman answered, the crying baby in her arms. 

" Yes, come in, you're welcome to telephone," she 
said, opening the door. " Lots of folks has acci- 
dents with their cars in that sandy stretch. Don't 
mind Albert; he's getting his teeth and he cries 
'most all the time. Seems like I should go crazy 
to listen." 

She spoke with resignation as she took them into 
a cluttered untidy sitting-room where a smoky kero- 
sene lamp poisoned the atmosphere. 

" You'd better do the telephoning," said Amory, 
and Elizabeth went into the kitchen as directed. 
She got her own home without difficulty and found 
that her father was out and with him the chauffeur, 
their whereabouts unknown. On a chance, Eliza- 
beth called both the Yacht and Country Clubs but 
neither had seen Mr. Emerson that evening. 
Though there was a car still in the garage there 
was no one who could drive to their rescue, and she 
finally hung up the receiver. 

On reentering the stuffy sitting-room she real- 



ELIZABETH LOSES SOMETHING 317 

ized that the baby had stopped crying, but was 
surprised to find Amory holding it and the little 
thing laughing in his face. 

" It isn't often Albert takes to a stranger/' said 
the gratified mother. " Usually he yells blue mur- 
der if anybody tries to hold him." 

" The kids are almost always good with me," said 
Amory. " That was all you wanted, wasn't it, little 
chap, — ^just to have a fellow sympathize over that 
tooth? Hard luck in such warm weather." 

" He's got such a rash over this last hot spell I 
couldn't keep him quiet." 

" Babies need a lot of water to drink in a hot 
time," said Amory, still petting the rapturous Al- 
bert. " And an extra bath helps out, doesn't it, old 
sport? " He added one or two suggestions as to 
summer treatment which the mother received with 
apparent gratitude. 

" You must have a baby of your own," she ob- 
served. 

"No," said Amory, entirely without embarrass- 
ment, " but I am a doctor so I know about them." 

" Bless and preserve us ! Here I was thinking 
you just a boy, though to be sure not many boys 
know how to handle a baby. I made sure you'd 
one at home. I'll try the magnesia and thank you 
kindly. We've lost two already and so I get worried 
easy over Albert. Did you get the line. Miss? " 



318 JOUKNEY'S END 

The last word was added after a deliberate look 
at Elizabeth's left hand, where she drew her own 
conclusions with eyes glued to the lovely ring it 
wore. 

"Yes, thank you/' said Elizabeth, coming for- 
ward from where she had paused in the doorway. 
" No use," she added to Amory. " Nobody to come 
for us." 

"You're not far from the car-line," said the 
woman, transferring her wistful gaze to Elizabeth's 
youthful face, her girlish blouse and the narrow 
velvet band in the dark hair. "That is, it's not 
far for anybody who can step right along when 
they start. I never can, for I have to lug Albert. 
My man works nights, you see, so he sleeps day- 
times." 

" We had better make for the electric cars," said 
Amory, rising. " And many thanks for the use of 
your telephone." 

At the first motion to put him down, Albert's 
lower lip began to quiver pitifully. 

" But I can't sit and hold you all night," said 
Amory in the exact tone he would have used to a 
person of his own age. " Just get that into your 
head. I'll tell you what I will do. Ask your mother 
to show me where your crib is and I'll stick you 
into it. Then you'll go to sleep, won't you, and let 
her sleep too? '* 



ELIZABETH LOSES SOMETHIN'G 319 

From his contented murmurs, Albert understood 
and agreed. Elizabeth stood watching, a lovely 
light in her eyes. "Amory holds that child as 
though it were no more weight than a little bird," 
she thought. 

She did not follow into the bedroom but the rea- 
sonable Albert stuck to his agreement. Not a 
sound came from his cot, and his mother came out 
smiling as they took their leave. 

" We will keep on walking till an electric over- 
takes us," said Amory as he swung into step. " And 
if you like, as soon as we get home, no matter how 
late it is, I'll take my car and you can get the 
duplicate key and we'll come back immediately. 
The only trouble is that we shall have to drive back 
(separately." 

" Then we'll drive quickly. I would rather have 
the car come home to-night if we can manage it." 

Elizabeth was rather silent during the brisk 
walk, more so after they entered the rattling electric 
which overtook them shortly after they emerged 
on the highway. Before her eyes flitted a picture of 
Amory, strangely out of place in the fusty little 
sitting-room, and the contented baby in his arms. 

On reaching home, she learned from a sleepy 
maid as she rushed up to her room for the key, that 
Mr. Emerson was still out. Amory went at once to 
the garage at Journey's End, sending a message to 



320 JOUENEY'S END 

Mrs. Kussell by Lydia. Within ten minutes they 
were on their way to rescue Elizabeth's car from 
its solitary abandonment. As they turned down 
the narrow cart-path skirting the dunes, the head- 
lights threw into sharp relief a little group of fig- 
ures. The sudden glare caused them to turn toward 
the approaching car and Elizabeth gave a gasp of 
surprise as she saw that the three men were dressed 
in loose dark garments and were unmistakably Ori- 
entals. 

They stepped aside as the car passed. Amory 
looked serious. He drove his own car beyond Eliza- 
beth's roadster so that she could take the lead and 
all the way up the sandy track to the beach road, 
he kept almost dangerously close to her tail-light. 
But the men were gone. 

Only to the right, Amory caught a glimpse of a 
light in a direction where he knew there was a 
tumbled-down shack, long since abandoned by the 
fishermen who built it. 

"There's certainly something queer going on,'' 
he thought. "Now I wonder whether the police 
know there are Chinks camping in that old hut. 
It looks as though the man in the car came out to 
see them." 

Amory was conscious of a feeling of relief when 
they emerged on the good road and could travel 
faster. " Not so much fun coming back as going," 



ELIZABETH LOSES SOMETHESTG 321 

he commented when both machines were safely 
housed. " And I'm not sure that I want a red pad- 
lock. It may keep my car from being stolen, but 
what if I can't steal it myself? '' 

" I never did it before and I never shall again," 
said Elizabeth, trying to preserve her dignity. 
" Good-night ; I've had the best time ever.'' 

Mrs. Eussell was in bed but not asleep when 
Amory came to her door. She bade him enter and 
listened with affectionate interest to his account of 
their adventures. After returning to his room, he 
recalled that he had not posted the reply to Dr. 
Mercer's letter and must see that it went in the 
morning. For a few moments he permitted his 
mind to dwell on that offer and then resolutely dis- 
missed the thought. He slept soundly until nearly 
daylight when he experienced a distinct and vivid 
dream, something most uncommon, for as a rule 
Ms sleep was dreamless. 

It seemed that his Uncle Eobert entered the room 
and came to his bedside as he had come in life. 
He did not speak, at least Amory could recall no 
spoken words, but none seemed needed. He stood 
quietly, his beautiful aristocratic old face lighted 
by an inward illumination which Amory remem- 
bered even after waking. 

But if there were no words, the message was 
none the less plain. Amory became conscious first 



322 JOUKNEY'S END 

of a great and surrounding love, a sense of peace, 
and then a conviction that he should never again 
regret his decision to stay in Freeport. All other 
inducements to the contrary were of no importance 
and would never again appear worthy any consid- 
eration. Then in the dream, his uncle raised his 
hand in blessing and left the room. 

The whole thing was so real and so vivid that 
Amory came to full consciousness with a strong 
impression that the door of his room had actually 
just closed. The dawn was breaking over the har- 
bor, its rosy light drifting through his open win- 
dows and he lay entirely wide awake, with every 
detail of the dream impressed on his memory. 

" Elizabeth said that she believed Uncle Robert 
knows and cares," he thought. " I never felt any- 
thing like this before and only yesterday afternoon 
I was wishing that I could talk with him. If I 
took any stock in dreams I must believe that he yet 
cares for me and that he approves of my staying 
in Freeport. But I need no dream to tell me that. 
It was his legacy to me, — ^his blessing and his un- 
dying love. And without yielding to superstition, 
I know that love outlasts death.'' 



CHAPTEE XXni 

IN WHICH ELIZABETH ACTS IN HASTE 

WHEN Dot and Marion wrote, Elizabeth 
found their letters more pleasant read- 
ing than she expected and was obliged 
to admit that her sisters really seemed pleased over 
her engagement. The tone of half admiration in 
Dorothy's note tickled Elizabeth's sense of humor. 
While Mrs. Emerson decreed that the engage- 
ment must not be made public until her return from 
Bar Harbor, she planned to cut short her stay and 
be in Freeport by the middle of September. Both 
young people, she wrote, must use great discretion 
until then. As soon as possible after her return, a 
luncheon would be given at which the announce- 
ment should be properly made. Doubtless Dr. 
Eussell, or dear Amory, as she should now call him, 
was anxious for an early marriage and there existed 
no objection. Of course it would be preferable 
were the older girls married first, but Major Lewes 
was in the Philippines and Marion would not hear 
of Bess waiting for her. As for Dorothy, Mrs. 
Emerson was really in despair, for she seemed so 

323 



324 JOUKNEY'S END 

hard to suit and yet she received more attention 
than either of her sisters. Dot saw no reason why 
Bess should delay, so how would an October wed- 
ding suit? An autumn wedding was lovely or if it 
wasn't, it was most depressing on account of 
weather, but weather was always a risk. It 
couldn't be counted on even in June. The ceremony 
must take place in All Saints and she was already 
considering the bridesmaids and their dresses. 

Elizabeth took the letters in good part, for they 
were affectionate and she was too supremely happy 
to feel critical. She smiled a little at thought of 
Major Lewes; he was such a contrast to her own 
prince of lovers. Could Marion really love him as 
she loved Amory? Major Lewes was fifteen years 
older than her sister, rather bald, rather weary, 
with the air of a man who has seen Life with a 
capital letter. Elizabeth conjured a mental pic- 
ture of her prospective brother-in-law to compare 
with those of Amory, as she recalled him playing 
tennis, or that evening on the dunes, with his fine 
head and slender athletic figure clearly outlined 
against the evening sky. Amory seemed sheer 
muscle ; she didn't believe he permitted himself an 
ounce of superfluous flesh, while Major Lewes al- 
ready sat his horse heavily. 

Elizabeth turned from the letters to look at 
Amory's picture on her desk, one taken in uniform, 



ELIZABETH ACTS IN HASTE 325 

close-clipped wavy hair covering a noble head, 
steady candid eyes, looking straight into hers, ut- 
terly un-self -conscious, though with the suggestion 
of a smile. The uniform became Amory, though 
of course she had never seen him in it. He looked 
like the portrait of his Uncle Robert and would, 
when older, resemble it yet more. 

Elizabeth had another picture, too, one begged 
from Aunt Eunice, of a slender little lad with a 
dreamy, shy expression and a proud dignity in the 
poise of his head. That air of personal dignity was 
still characteristic, but Amory's eyes no longer 
dreamed. They were straightforward and frank 
now, the eyes of a man who has looked upon the dif- 
ficulties of life and encountered them with a clean 
mind and a sweet spirit. No, Marion was welcome 
to her cavalry major ; Elizabeth wondered how on 
earth she could care for him. 

Amory was certainly the most thoughtful of 
lovers; nothing lacked Elizabeth in offerings of 
flowers and candy, and she appreciated the delicacy 
with which, until they were openly engaged, he 
confined his gifts to those which placed her under 
no obligation. He was always considerate, always 
gentlemanly, though he teased her mildly and was 
playful in a charming comradely w?y. Probably 
Amory could have wooed a girl in no other manner, 
but it chanced to be the only one that appealed to 



326 JOURNEY'S END 

Elizabeth. Had lie taken the least advantage of 
her, frightened or repelled her in any way, she 
would have shied like a wild pony, but he was never 
anything but gentle, even reverent in his caresses, 
and asked them as a favor rather than a right. 

Ten very happy days followed their picnic on the 
dunes, days in which Amory found time to sail, play 
tennis and motor with Elizabeth while neglecting 
neither Aunt Eunice nor his duties. One evening 
he took Elizabeth to dine with the Averys, who 
received her with an affection that touched her to 
the heart. She wanted them to like her and went 
with the intention of being her nicest self but found 
it no effort whatever. The same atmosphere that 
characterized Journey's End existed at Hillcrest, 
and in .such simple and friendly surroundings it 
was easy to respond. 

One night when they had watched the sun set 
from a height beyond the town, Amory asked her 
quite seriously if she would like to sail out in the 
early dawn and see it rise. Elizabeth agreed, bor- 
rowed an alarm-clock and met him on the sea-wall 
at an appallingly early hour. The harbor was cov- 
ered with a white mist just beginning to curl lazily 
away and the east showed faint streaks of pink and 
yellow. The cool wind made Elizabeth shiver in 
her heavy sweater. She was glad to help get the 
Whitewing under way. 



When they were headed for the outer harbor, 
Amory gave her the tiller and produced from a 
locker the identical T-shirt he resurrected on the 
day they raced the Curlew, Elizabeth looked at 
the garment without recognition, for it had since 
encountered soap, hot water, and the experienced 
hands of Bertha. 

" You are cold," he commented ; " put this on." 

Elizabeth did so and he watched with a twinkle 
in his eyes. " Yes," he said, " you did it just as you 
described, sleeves first and head last." 

Elizabeth laughed and looked more closely at 
the shirt. " How warm it is ! Is this the thing 
you wore that day? But that one was very 
dirty." 

" Lydia took it away from me and had it washed. 
Then she discovered that it was Tom's and said I 
must give it to Mrs. Howland. I said that it be- 
longed to the Whitewing and brought it back. I 
know Mrs. Howland would be willing I should keep 
it and I cannot part with that old T-shirt because 
though it was so very dirty, it is the thing I was 
wearing when you first told me you loved me. 
Don't you think Tom would like us to keep it in our 
boat? " 

" I know he would," said Elizabeth, and then they 
watched the dawn grow in wonder and peace, the 
whole sky sharing its soft color and glorious prom- 



328 JOURNEY'S END 

ise. They looked back to see it strike tlie towi\ 
illuminating tree-tops and hills, catching reflections 
from church windows and spires. There was little 
wind and the Whitewing moved slowly on a pink 
and green ocean. 

" * Love that is born of the deep like the sun from 
the sea/ '^ quoted Amory as he sat with one arm 
around Elizabeth, watching the red orb emerge 
from the waves. 

Elizabeth was silent until it was well above the 
horizon. ^^ This is another of your ^ big things,' 
Amory," she said when the lovely delicate tints had 
vanished in the light of common day. 

" Isn't it great that we have so many of them 
close at hand? Have you ever seen the sunrise from 
a mountain top? " 

" Only in Switzerland. Everybody does it there, 
but never at home." 

" Some night we will sleep on Chocorua at the 
Inn of the Beautiful Star, — ^flat on the grass, Eliza- 
beth ! And we will see the sun come up over the 
hills. Now will you have some coffee? " 

Amory was unscrewing a thermos bottle. " That 
does taste good," Elizabeth admitted, "but it is 
growing warmer every minute. And the sun looks 
red, as though we should have a hot day." 

" I am commissioned to bring you home to break- 
fast. Aunt Eunice called me as I came down, and 



ELIZABETH ACTS IN HASTE 329 

it is to be early, so that is why I did not take any- 
thing from Lydia's pantry. I'm glad you are a 
picnicky person, Queen Bess. Some people don't 
like lunching all over the landscape.'' 

" The rest of my family don't," admitted Eliza- 
beth frankly. " Billy adores it, but the others can't 
stand it." 

" I am going to enjoy having Billy for my little 
brother. We seem to have other tastes in common 
besides that of loving Elizabeth." 

" You will be awfully good for him. Being the 
only boy and so much younger, he's rather spoiled, 
and Dad doesn't help matters much. Either he 
lets him do exactly as he chooses or else hauls him 
up for something that isn't serious. Billy thinks 
you are great." 

"I mean to deserve Billy's friendship," said 
Amory, and then he took his megaphone and hailed 
a passing dory. Elizabeth handled the boat while 
he bought two great green lobsters. 

" I suppose Lydia won't give them to us for 
breakfast, and it would take too long to boil them. 
Can't we have another picnic somewhere to-night 
and eat 'em then? " 

" I'm good for the picnic and the lobsters but not 
to-night, Amory. There's the dance at the Country 
Club. I'm counting on that, you know." 

" Forgive me. I'd forgotten that I promised to 



330 JOURNEY'S END 

frivol with you this evening. And I suppose that 
I'll be cut off with two or, at the most, three dances, 
because of Mrs. Grundy, and I'll have to sit and 
twirl my thumbs and pity the poor chap who is 
dancing with you, not knowing you are mine." 

" It is hard lines," laughed Elizabeth, " and if it 
wasn't for Mother, I'd dance with you the whole 
evening and let people say what they like. They 
are talking anyway, for we have been seen together 
a good deal. I'll do it if you will." 

"It would delight me of course, but probably 
we'd better not displease your mother. She's com- 
ing very soon now and then we can be openly to- 
gether. It seems ridiculous to keep up the pretence 
that we are nothing to each other, and it grows 
harder for me every minute. Look out, or you'U 
miss the mooring." 

Elizabeth's prediction of a warm day proved true. 
Immediately on landing they felt the heat and by 
the time breakfast was over, the air was stifling. 
Lydia made a tour around Journey's End, closing 
windows and blinds to keep the house cool. Eliza- 
beth went home and to bed that she might be fresh 
for the evening. At four Amory telephoned to ask 
whether he should bring his car. By Elizabeth's 
desire, he agreed to let her take hers. 

The Country Club lay some distance from Free- 
port, back in the hills, but commanded a lovely 



ELIZABETH ACTS IN HASTE 331 

view and was noted for its golf links. Even during 
winter it remained an active social centre, for its 
big rooms with their cheery open fires and fine 
floors were attractions that drew many an after- 
noon crowd bent on cards and tea, or in the evening 
for a dance. 

As a rule, Elizabeth did not care especially for 
the doings at the Country Club with the single ex- 
ception of the tennis tournaments. Her young life 
had been crowded with social festivities, and the 
real Elizabeth, the one who enjoyed Journey's End, 
found them unsatisfying, but to-night she was ex- 
tremely anxious to attend the dance, chiefly because 
it was the first public entertainment to which 
Amory had escorted her since that Saturday night 
at the Yacht Club. Even though their engagement 
was not yet known, there was a certain sweet satis- 
faction in going with him, in seeing him in contrast 
with other young men and comparing him favor- 
ably, aware all the time of the beautiful secret 
which was theirs alone. 

Elizabeth bathed and dressed in a glory of happy 
anticipation, said good-bye to her father, who was 
playing bridge with the Townleys, where four old 
cronies planned an evening together. She was just 
putting the finishing touches to her dress, one se- 
lected with regard to Amory's taste, when she was 
summoned to the telephone. 



332 JOUKNEY'S END 

Three minutes later, Elizabeth came back to her 
room, and Sally, arranging its disorder, stood open- 
mouthed before the change in her face. Elizabeth 
looked like a storm-cloud before the healing burst 
of rain. Her eyes were black and angry. 

" Never mind those things, Sally ; I'm not going 
to the dance." 

" Not going. Miss Bess? And you all ready! " 

Elizabeth stopped short and stared at the maid. 
Then another look crossed her face, an expression 
it had not worn in weeks. 

" Yes, I will go after all," she said suddenly in a 
queer hard tone. "But I won't wear this dress. 
Wait a minute." 

The surprised maid heard her talking with some 
one at the telephone. Shortly she came flying back, 
tearing off her frock on the way. 

" Get out my black satin with the henna embroid- 
ery," she commanded, pulling the pins from her 
hair. " IVe got to comb this over again." 

Sally did her best to help. In a quarter of an 
hour there was a ring at the door and the trans- 
formed Elizabeth flew down-stairs. Even to a maid 
untrained in nice distinctions there was a great 
difference in the appearance of this Elizabeth in a 
very daring evening gown of striking colors and 
cut, and the girl who, half an hour before, looked 
half -shyly into the mirror, approving the soft chif- 



ELIZABETH ACTS IN HASTE 333 

fon dress and smiling at the face so soon to greet 
her lover. 

Sally looked from the window but the car was 
already out of sight. 

"Whatever struck Miss Bess, and she looking 
so sweet in this blue? " soliloquized Sally, as she 
shook out the discarded chiffon. "And the way 
she's done her hair and the dress she's gone off in 
is enough to make any feller look bold at her." 



CHAPTEE XXIV: 

IN WHICH THINGS HAPPEN THICK AND FAST 

FAILII^G a sea-breeze, the night remained 
stiflingly hot. About two, Mr. Emerson was 
awakened by the faint sounds of Elizabeth's 
return from the dance, and found it impossible to 
get to sleep again. He tossed and turned, trying to 
find a cool side to his pillow, and finally rose with 
the intention of smoking a cigar in one of the com- 
fortable porch chairs. 

As he passed his daughter's open door, he was 
startled to hear something like a smothered sob. 
He paused to listen and the sound was repeated. 

" What is the matter, Bess? '' he asked, entering 
the room and going to her bedside. " Too hot to 
sleep?" 

Elizabeth made no answer but lay with face 
buried in her pillow over which strayed her wavy 
black hair. 

" Bess, what's wrong? " asked her father again, 
laying a hand on the shoulder nearest. It shook 
convulsively under his touch. 

"Oh, Dad," moaned Elizabeth, sitting upright 
and pushing away her hot hair, " I have done the 
most awful thing! I don't know what you will 

334 



THINGS HAPPEN THICK AND FAST 335 

think of me, but youll have to know, and so will 
Amory, and it half kills me to think of telling you." 

" Well, you might as well have it over with," ob- 
served Mr. Emerson kindly. " I can stand a good 
deal. Do you mind if I light this cigar? " 

"No," said Elizabeth, and then she was silent 
while he struck his match. " It is the worst thing 
I ever did. Dad, and you will be angry with me," 
she began miserably, when the light had flickered 
out. 

" Have you and Amory quarreled? " inquired her 
father, settled at ease in Elizabeth's lounging chair. 

" I haven't seen him since morning," said Eliza- 
beth in a low tone. She was lying back now, a wet 
ball of handkerchief in one hand, every curve of 
her slender girlish body showing dejection. 

" You haven't? " asked her father in surprise. 
" I thought he took you to the dance. Well, go on. 
Tell me what has happened." 

"He did intend to take me," began Elizabeth. 
" I was entirely dressed and ready when he tele- 
phoned. He seemed very much upset and excited 
and in a great hurry. The connection was poor and 
I did not quite understand what had happened, 
except that he was called to somebody who was 
very ill and could not take me io the Country Club. 
I couldn't get the name of the person though he 
told me. I asked if it was one of his regular pa- 



336 JOUENEY'S END 

tients and lie said it was for the first time. It did 
seem to me that he might say he had an engagement 
and tell the person to call another doctor. But 
Amory would not even stop to talk to me. He said 
he was very sorry to disappoint me and would see 
me as soon as he could, but he couldn't delay an- 
other second. And then he rang off before I could 
say another word." 

" What next? " asked Mr. Emerson, for Elizabeth 
relapsed into silence. 

" I saw his car go, very fast, and he did not wave 
to me nor even look to see whether I was watching. 
I was so disappointed, Dad, for I had set my heart 
on going with him to-night. And it seemed to me 
that he wasn't very considerate. I thought it over 
and decided that as long as our engagement wasn't 
announced, Amory couldn't blame me if I went 
with somebody else and I called up Clive Temple- 
ton and asked him to go with me." 

" Humph ! " grunted her father. 

"Oh!" said Elizabeth with a little wail, "that 
is nothing to what happened later ! Clive was de- 
lighted and came over at once and I took him in 
my car. I felt as though I didn't care what I did. 
It is all Mother's fault for not letting me tell people 
I was engaged." 

" This is about as clear as mud at present, Bess, 
but go on. I'm listening." 



THINGS HAPPEN THICK AND FAST 337 

Elizabetli spread out her soaked handkercliief 
and looked at it distastefully. 

" I didn^t appreciate that by asking Clive I gave 
him a sort of claim on me and he took advantage 
of it. I see now that he had a right to assume that 
I wanted to be monopolized, and he was in a wild 
mood, and I didn't care. We went rather far, Dad. 
I danced as I would never do with Amory." 

" I'm afraid you have been a silly little girl/' said 
her father reflectively. 

" Before the evening was over I was ashamed but 
I couldn't manage Clive as well as usual. Finally 
I insisted on coming home. He sulked but gave in 
at last. It was about one and because there were 
few cars out I drove pretty fast. Clive was acting 
like an idiot and I wanted to get rid of him. Just 
as we came into the square, he tried to kiss me," 

Elizabeth stopped short. 

"Well, what did you smash? " asked her father. 

" I jerked away from him," confessed Elizabeth, 
"and somehow jerked the wheel as well and we 
plunged directly into the drug-store window. 
There was a fearful crash and Clive went over the 
side of the car." 

" I hope he broke his neck," said Mr. Emerson 
vindictively. 

" No such luck," sighed Elizabeth. " The next I 
knew there were men about and two policemen. 



338 JOUElSrEY'S EISTD 

The druggist plastered Clive up ; he got some cuts 
but not serious ones. I wasn't hurt at all. It is a 
miracle how we could have made such a smash and 
not been cut to pieces. The drug-store window is 
wrecked, the car is in Prince's garage with the 
lamps and right wheel-guard and radiator stove in, 
and I am under orders to appear before a magis- 
trate to-morrow at ten, — to-day, I mean, — ^to answer 
a charge of reckless driving.'' 

With the last words she buried her face in the 
pillow. Her father surveyed her thoughtfully and 
had Elizabeth been able to see his face in the dim 
room she would have read about his mouth a slight 
expression of amusement. 

" You are a naughty girl, Bess," he said at length, 
" and I think you got what you deserved. I will go 
to court with you and I will pay the fine and settle 
the damage to the drug-store, although that may 
come out of the insurance company, but you can 
pay for repairing your car from your own allow- 
ance. And you will have to square yourself with 
Amory ; no one can do that for you." 

Elizabeth sat up with a despairing wave of her 
hands. " You are too good to me, Dad," she said 
tearfully. "I don't deserve it. But the very 
thought of Amory's knowing makes me sick all 
over. I can't bear it ! What shall I say to him? '' 

" If you take my advice, you'll tell him the un- 



THINGS HAPPEN THICK AND FAST 339 

varnished truth. I don't think he'll stand for any- 
thing else." 

" But what will he think of me? " moaned poor 
Elizabeth. 

" That is your worst punishment, my little girl," 
said her father affectionately. " You won't have 
an enjoyable quarter of an hour. But Amory is 
big enough to forgive you though he won't be hu- 
man if he isn't angry. By the way, I can tell you 
for whom he left you in the lurch and it's a pity 
you didn't understand when he told you. I heard 
just as I was coming home. Henry Avery was 
taken with acute indigestion or ptomaine poison- 
ing or something of that kind and he had a mighty 
close call." 

'^ Mr, Avery f exclaimed Elizabeth. "That is 
the last straw! Oh, if I had only understood the 
name ! Of course Amory had to go ; he thinks every- 
thing of the Averys. What a selfish beast he must 
believe me ! Daddy, that really is more than I can 
bear ! " 

Elizabeth relapsed into helpless tears and would 
be comforted by nothing. 

" Where do you keep your handkerchiefs? " Mr. 
Emerson finally asked, blundering about her dress- 
ing-table. " In this basket thing? Here, take this. 
Now I am going down to the pantry and see if I 
can rustle some iced lemonade. While I am gone. 



340 JOUKNEY'S END 

Bess, I wish you'd get up and take a cold bath. 
This is a bad mess, I admit, but I can't see that cry- 
ing will mend matters and you'll make yourself 
sick. Be a sport and take all that's coming to 
you." 

"It will be in the papers to-morrow,'' sobbed 
Elizabeth, grasping the welcome handkerchief. 
" Two reporters turned up." 

Mr. Emerson frowned. He had forgotten this 
unpleasant probability. 

" Well, I'll stand by you," he said after mutter- 
ing something that sounded profane. "I'll do 
everything I can to help, and just to please me, 
won't you stop crying? " 

"I'll try," choked Elizabeth, and during her 
father's absence she did get up and take a cold 
shower and braid her disordered hair. When he 
returned with two glasses tinkling invitingly, she 
was again in bed and quite calm. 

" There," he said, " drink this and then kiss me 
and go to sleep." 

Elizabeth obeyed the first and second injunctions 
but found the third impossible. She lay until day- 
light with burning eyes wide open, though bravely 
resisting the inclination to further tears. 

She heard nothing at all from Amory, which was 
not surprising, since he remained by Mr. Avery's 
side till six in the morning, and then he supposed 



THINGS HAPPEN THICK AND FAST 341 

her asleep and did not think of calling her. He 
went to bed in Putnam's room so completely worn 
out that Mrs. Avery had not wakened him at the 
hour when Elizabeth and her father started for 
court. 

Elizabeth showed surprisingly little trace of her 
past emotion. The curious observers in the court- 
room, the reporters who had turned up because of 
the prominence of the young people involved, saw 
nothing of her face, for she had put on a figured 
white veil, almost opaque. 

The magistrate was considerate though stem. 
He called Elizabeth to his desk and conducted his 
examination in a low tone of voice. 

"How fast were you driving. Miss Emerson?" 
he inquired when the police officers and the drug- 
gist had given their versions of the story. 

" I don't precisely know. It was faster than I 
should have done had there been more traffic on the 
street." 

" But you were exceeding the legal limit for the 
town?" 

Elizabeth frankly admitted it. 

" Did you have your car under control? " 

"I did," she answered, not seeing where his 
queries were tending. 

" Will you kindly put up your veil? Now," he 
went on, as she reluctantly complied, " if you had 



342 JOUElSrEY'S END 

control of your car how did it happen that you so 
suddenly lost it? The witnesses agree that though 
traveling fast the car was going straight until it 
reached Tracy's corner when it turned at an acute 
angle. What happened? " 

"My companion did something that startled 
me/' Elizabeth replied almost inaudibly. 

" And what did he do? " asked the judge. 

Elizabeth glanced appealingly at her father who 
looked grim and forbidding. Then a flash of her 
usual spirit returned. " I don't think I am obliged 
to tell you," she said quietly, " and no gentleman 
would insist on an answer." 

The judge smiled in spite of himself. " We will 
waive the question," he said. " The maximum fine. 
Miss Emerson, and a second arrest for speeding 
will mean the revocation of your license." 

Mr. Emerson took out a roll of bills and paid the 
fine. Elizabeth pulled down her veil and they left 
the court-room and went out to the waiting car. 

" Drop me at the of&ce, John," said her father, 
" and then take Miss Elizabeth home. Do you want 
John to go round to Prince's and see what the dam- 
age to your machine amounts to? " he added to his 
daughter. 

" Perhaps he had better," agreed Elizabeth, bit- 
ing her lips to keep back the tears. " Will you be 
home for luncheon? " 



THINGS HAPPEN THICK AND FAST 343 

" No, I am going to Boston and I may not be 
back even for dinner, but I will telephone you if I 
find I cannot come. Stop here, John ; there's a man 
I want to see. Good-bye, Bess ; better take a nap if 
you can snatch one." 

After a struggle with her pride, Elizabeth tele- 
phoned to Journey's End intending to confess the 
whole affair to Amory, but learned from Lydia that 
he was still at Hillcrest and would be wakened 
only in time to come home for his o£Q.ce hour. The 
tears came as Elizabeth hung up the receiver. She 
would have no chance to tell him now until late in 
the afternoon. 

" What beastly luck ! " she thought. " Every 
possible thing is going wrong with me. I believe a 
jinx has camped on my trail." 

Clive telephoned but Elizabeth refused to speak 
to him. She lay on the couch in her room, the 
gentian-colored ring pressed comfortingly against 
her cheek. No doubt Amory would be angry with 
her, but in the end he would forgive her and she 
longed for that moment. 

Jinx or mere bad luck, it was certainly unfor- 
tunate that her sincere intention to confess was 
I>osti>oned. Amory heard the news from other lips 
than hers and from more than one source. 

Mrs. Avery gave him luncheon and after a final 
visit to Uncle Henry, white, wan, but entirely out of 



344 JOUKKEY'S END 

danger, Amory drove home, stopping for an errand 
at Tracy's drug-store where the wrecked window 
could not fail to catch his eye. To a query as to 
the cause, Amory heard a tale which gave him keen 
distress. To hear Elizabeth's name coupled with 
that of Clive Templeton, and both involved in a 
discreditable accident, was sufficiently painful 
without the numerous highly colored details thrown 
in by druggist and bystanders. He kept both face 
and manner under control and no one could guess 
that he had any personal interest in the affair, but 
as he went out to his car, his lips were sternly set. 
While he did not credit all the details profusely 
furnished, there was only too much that he feared 
was true. 

Before reaching home he was stopped by Brooks 
Palmer, who laughingly asked whether he knew 
that Bess Emerson had broken loose again. Aunt 
Eunice, however, seemed to have heard nothing and 
to be concerned only for the Averys. Amory an- 
swered her questions and then turned to his next 
duty, hoping that his patients would not be numer- 
ous. He was yet tired from his night's vigil and to 
hear these tales of Elizabeth was far from easy or 
pleasant. 

Two of his patients brought him varied versions 
of the same and though he did not in the least en- 
courage or even respond to their gossip, he waB 



THINGS HAPPEN THICK AND FAST 345 

forced to acknowledge to himself, witli real sadness, 
that they seemed glad to speak ill of Elizabeth. 
This realization came to him with a shock. 

Having shown out the second tattling old lady, 
who considered as she walked away that Dr. Eus- 
sell's manner was not so engaging as reported, 
Amory looked into the waiting-room, supposing it 
to be empty, but found one more person to see him. 

The first glance brought a feeling of surprise, 
for he was Amory's second Chinese patient, but it 
was followed by one of interest, for the man was in 
pain. 

Unlike his previous caller, he was neither well- 
dressed nor well-educated, but elderly, worn, and 
with a face that told of privation and hardship. He 
did not even speak English except brokenly, but 
few words were needed to explain the hand which 
he drew from a covering handkerchief, swollen and 
angry with a serious infection which had begun as 
a painful felon. 

Amory worked for half an hour, applying a local 
anesthetic, lancing, dressing, bandaging, every mo- 
tion sure and certain. His caller watched in si- 
lence, with inscrutable eyes bent on his own toil- 
worn fingers and Amory's delicate sensitive ones. 

" How much? " he asked abruptly when the oper- 
ation was completed. 

Amory gave him another glance. He might or 



346 JOUKNEY'S END 

might not have a fat bank account, one could never 
tell, but his clothes indicated extreme poverty, and 
his face suffering of some kind. 

" That's all right," he said pleasantly. " We 
will call it even. If it gets painful again, come back 
and let me see it. And you must keep it clean, 
clean, you understand. I will give you some dis- 
infectant." 

The man took the bottle but after listening to 
the directions, yet lingered. 

" You'll be all right now," said Amory in a tone 
of dismissal. He was desperately weary and 
wanted to be alone. 

The man thanked him and started to go. At the 
door he hesitated and half turned. " You good to 
me," he said abruptly. " You know about Tong? " 

" Tong? " queried Amory. " Is he some China- 
man? " 

His visitor looked around half-fearfully, and 
made a curious motion in the air, reminding Amory 
of the familiar Italian gesture against the evil eye. 
" Not man," he said in a low tone. " You look out 
for Tong. Tong very strong. Not mean to hurt 
anybody unless you get in way. Better take care." 

" Look here," said Amory, interested but puzzled, 
" what are you driving at, brother? Do you know 
anything about the Chinese callers we have already 
had? " 



THINGS HAPPEN THICK AND FAST 347 

The face of his visitor became inscrutable. " Not 
know anything," he said blandly. "Better let 
Tong take it. Have it anyway. Good-bye, velly 
kind doctor." 

He was gone almost before he stopped speaking. 
Under other circumstances this conversation would 
have interested Amory immensely, but his mind was 
too full of Elizabeth to pay much attention to it. 
He tucked it away as something to consider later, 
but as he cleaned the instruments just used he was 
thinking of her. 

Before he finished. Bell knocked and came in. 
"Miss Emerson is in the east parlor," she said. 
" She wants to see you when it is convenient." 

" Tell her I will be there immediately. Where is 
my aunt? " 

" Mrs. Russell hasn't come down-stairs yet." 

Amory put away his instruments and washed 
his hands. He felt sure the interview was going to 
be trying and his great love for Elizabeth did not 
prevent his feeling critical over her indiscretion, 
annoyed because she had made herself so con- 
spicuous. 

When he entered the east parlor, she stood al- 
most in its centre, looking so woe-begone and 
wretched that Amory completely forgot his indigna- 
tion and started to take her in his arms. Elizabeth 
waved him back and thereby made her first mis- 



348 JOUENEY'S END 

take. " Don't touch me," she said. " Don't come 
near me. Sit down over there." 

She spoke imperiously and the tone hurt Amory. 
" I shall not sit unless you do," he said. 

Elizabeth flung herself into a chair on the oppo- 
site side of the room. ^^Have you heard?" she 
demanded. 

"About your accident last night? Yes, from 
several sources, but I am waiting to hear from you 
what really happened. I'm unspeakably thankful 
you weren't hurt." 

Elizabeth told her story, not sparing herself in 
the least, and her curt sentences made her appear 
unfeeling. The truth was worse than Amory antici- 
pated and when she finished he looked white. She 
stated the bald facts and did not add a single word 
of regret or penitence, which was her second mis- 
take. At one syllable of the kind, Amory would 
have crossed the room at once, but her voice and 
attitude were defiant, more so than Elizabeth real- 
ized. She did not understand that his absolute 
quietness was the direct result of her own manner. 

" I am sorry," he said at length. " I suppose you 
had a perfect right to go with Templeton since I 
could not take you. Had it been any one but Uncle 
Henry " 

Amory stopped. Half the night he had fought 
single-handed with a grim adversary for Henry 



THINGS HAPPEN THICK AND FAST 349 

Avery^s life and the recollection of that conflict 
made the dance at the Country Club appear trivial. 

" I did not understand who was ill," said Eliza- 
beth. " Of course you had to go." 

"Yes," assented Amory and again he stopped, 
for she had spoken even those words ungraciously. 
After a pause he went on. " Is there really any 
need of our discussing the matter, Elizabeth? If 
you wanted to go to the dance badly enough to ask 
Templeton to take you, and if you really like the 
sort of things it involved, I don^t believe there is 
very much to be said." 

Elizabeth flared up. " Do you mean to say you 
don^t care what I do? " 

" Of course I care. You seem to be the one who 
does not." 

Amory was angry but poor Elizabeth did not 
know it. Accustomed to a family which spoke its 
mind openly and irritably whenever annoyed, she 
did not appreciate that his quiet manner and white 
face indicated any special feeling. She thought him 
cold and he was, but not through indifference. 

" Had our engagement been announced, I would 
not have gone. I thought since no one knew, there 
was no harm." 

" I understand that," said Amory" quietly. 
" That was all right. What I don't understand is 
your permitting Templeton to take such liberties." 



350 JOURNEY'S END 

^'Permit him? It was trying to stop him that 
made me wreck the car." 

" Before that — during the dance." 

Elizabeth looked at him angrily. " I told you 
we made ourselves conspicuous." 

" So I heard," said Amory wearily. More than 
one description of that dance had come to his ears. 
" Let's not talk about it, Elizabeth," he said, rising 
as he spoke. 

" I can't leave it here," she began, and then stung 
by his very calm, said much more than she meant, 
losing her temper completely as she made no 
impression whatever upon his apparent composure. 
She stopped abruptly in the middle of an angry 
speech when Mrs. Russell suddenly entered the 
room, the evening paper crushed in one hand. Her 
face was pale and her manner agitated. 

" Amory ! " she exclaimed, looking from one to 
the other. " My poor Elizabeth ! " 

She caught her breath sharply and wavered. 
With two steps Amory was at her side and saved 
her from falling. " It wanted only this ! " he mut- 
tered. 

On the front page of the paper as it dropped to 
the floor, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of her own 
likeness. 



CHAPTEE XXV 

IN WHICH AUNT EUNICE CONSIDERS AMOEY STUBBORN 

AN hour later Amory sat beside Ms aunt as 
slie lay on the couch in the west sitting- 
room. She was practically herself again, 
for the seizure, while more sudden, had not been so 
acute as the previous one. Now she was perfectly 
calm and wished to talk, a desire from which her 
nephew dissuaded her. 

During those first anxious moments Amory had 
been conscious of Elizabeth's agonized face as she 
tried to render assistance, but only as an accessory 
in the background, for every power of his being 
was concentrated on Mrs. Russell. He really could 
not say at what point Elizabeth disappeared, 
though he thought it was not until his aunt became 
conscious. At any rate she was gone. 

He sat stroking gently the hand he held, his eyes 
bent on the sweet face before him. 

" Would thee like me to carry thee to thy room?" 
he asked at length, " or is thee equally comfortable 
kere? " 

361 



852 JOUKNEY'S END 

"I will remain here for the present, though I 
feel well again. I cannot be at ease, Amory, untD 
thee permits me to say what is on my miad." 

" Then say it, dear Aunt Eunice." 

"Elizabeth — ^thee has been gentle with her? 
Poor child, I know she is suffering." 

" I have said almost nothing to her." 

" But thee was angry, Amory. I read thy face 
in that one glance." 

" She did not know. I told her that I thought 
we had better not discuss the affair." 

" Thee cannot set it aside that way, Amory." 

" Not finally, but we can wait until we can talk 
with self-control." 

Mrs. Eussell was silent for a moment. " I fear it 
would have been wiser not to put her off. Eliza- 
beth is impetuous and acts on impulse. I wish thee 
had been affectionate with her." 

" She would not let me touch her, Aunt Eunice. 
It was her choice to have the room between us." 

" I think thee could have disregarded that prohi- 
bition," said his aunt after another pause. " That 
would have been wiser, but how was thee to know? 
Perhaps it will be as well for you both to have an 
interval for reflection. I did not think, when I 
bade thee remember thy own faults while judging 
Elizabeth's, that thee would have such serious oc- 
casion. My heart goes out to her, for I know how 



CONSIDERS AMORY STUBBORN 353 

bitterly she will repent, and thy face does not indi- 
cate unqualified forgiveness." 

" I can forgive Elizabeth much, but not for being 
the cause of thy seizure, Aunt Eunice." 

"Amory, thee must hold thy love for Elizabeth 
above all other earthly affection." 

" I have loved her but a short time. I cannot 
remember when I did not love thee." 

" It is plain thee is wise in desiring time for re- 
flection," said Mrs. Russell after a time. "Ah, 
Amory, thee was stubborn as a boy ; thee can be so 
still." 

Her nephew made no reply. 

" Thee and Elizabeth alone must adjust things ; 
no one can do it for you." Then she spoke again, 
quoting softly, more to herself than to Amory. 

** *If there are any shades in God's deep love, 
I do believe His deepest love goes out 
To the tormented, irresponsible, 
Gay, eager, burning, foolish heart of youth.' " 

" Let me carry thee up-stairs. Aunt Eunice," said 
Amory, after a silence that seemed likely to last 
indefinitely. " Indeed, thee is not too heavy. Re- 
member that I stand five foot ten and thee only 
reaches my shoulder." 

" Thee may do so, dear. I did not think years 
ago, when I carried a sleepy little child up to bed. 



354 JOURNEY'S END 

that some day lie would carry me over tlie same 
stairs. Thee is like thy uncle, Amory ; most men of 
unusual physical strength are gentle to women and 
children." 

" Shall I send Lydia to thee? " asked her nephew 
when he had placed her on the couch in her own 
room. 

" Not just yet. Stay with me but a moment." 

Amory knelt beside her as he had done on the day 
of his return. 

"Don't worry about Elizabeth, Aunt Eunice. 
The moment she asks my forgiveness it is hers, but 
under the circumstances the least she can do is to 
express regret." 

" Thee will know more about women some day. 
I would advise thee to forgive her before she asks. 
I know Elizabeth and I am fearful that she will do 
something desperate simply through reaction 
against this escapade." 

" I should think this would last her for a time," 
observed Amory. 

" Thee and Elizabeth will have mutually to bear 
and forbear like all young people. Give her my 
dear love, Amory. I wish she would come to me, 
for I would not have her feel she caused my illness." 

" I am afraid there is no denying that she did, 
and I cannot let thee see her to-night. Thee must 
have no further agitation. When the right mo- 



CONSIDEES AMORY STUBBORN 367 

ment comes, and I don't think it will be this e\3ek 
ing, I will be all thee wishes toward Elizabetm 
except that I will not forgive her for indirectl^l 
making thee ill." 

" Amory, thee promised not to judge." 

" I won't except where some one hurts thee." 

" I must make thee the subject of my prayer as 
well as Elizabeth. Thee would be more than hu- 
man if thee did not feel tried with her, but we all 
need forgiveness so much that we must be quick to 
forgive others. I trust thee will rest to-night and 
that the morning may bring wisdom to both thee 
and Elizabeth. Thee has had much in the past 
twenty-four hours that has been hard to bear. Is 
thee going again to Hillcrest? " 

"I shall drive up for a look at Uncle Henry, 
though he no longer needs me. I will go to bed 
early and I think I shall sleep, for I am tired." 

"And thee has had no dinner. Go down at once, 
Amory. I had not realized I was keeping thee so 
long." 

" Dinner ! " said Amory. " I don't feel as though 
I wanted any, but I suppose Til have to eat to 
please Lydia." 

Lydia indeed awaited him anxiously in the lower 
hall, her face a picture of distress. Amory sent her 
to his aunt, saying he would ring, for Bell if he 
needed attention. He took the opportunity as he 



354: JOURNEY'S END 

that some day lie would carry me over tlie same 
stairs. Thee is like thy uncle, Amory ; most men of 
unusual physical strength are gentle to women and 
children." 

" Shall I send Lydia to thee? " asked her nephew 
when he had placed her on the couch in her own 
room. 

" Not just yet. Stay with me but a moment." 

Amory knelt beside her as he had done on the day 
of his return. 

" Don't worry about Elizabeth, Aunt Eunice. 
The moment she asks my forgiveness it is hers, but 
under the circumstances the least she can do is to 
express regret." 

" Thee will know more about women some day. 
I would advise thee to forgive her before she asks. 
I know Elizabeth and I am fearful that she will do 
something desperate simply through reaction 
against this escapade." 

" I should think this would last her for a time," 
observed Amory. 

" Thee and Elizabeth will have mutually to bear 
and forbear like all young people. Give her my 
dear love, Amory. I wish she would come to me, 
for I would not have her feel she caused my illness." 

" I am afraid there is no denying that she did, 
and I cannot let thee see her to-night. Thee must 
have no further agitation. When the right mo- 



CONSIDEKS AMOKY STUBBOKN 

ment comes, and I don^t think it will be this e\^ 
ing, I will be all thee wishes toward Elizabet' 
except that I will not forgive her for indirectl; 
making thee ill." 

" Amory, thee promised not to judge." 

" I won't except where some one hurts thee." 

" I must make thee the subject of my prayer as 
well as Elizabeth. Thee would be more than hu- 
man if thee did not feel tried with her, but we all 
need forgiveness so much that we must be quick to 
forgive others. I trust thee will rest to-night and 
that the morning may bring wisdom to both thee 
and Elizabeth. Thee has had much in the past 
twenty-four hours that has been hard to bear. Is 
thee going again to Hillcrest? " 

"I shall drive up for a look at Uncle Henry, 
though he no longer needs me. I will go to bed 
early and I think I shall sleep, for I am tired." 

"And thee has had no dinner. Go down at once, 
Amory. I had not realized I was keeping thee so 
long." 

" Dinner ! " said Amory. " I don't feel as though 
I wanted any, but I suppose I'll have to eat to 
please Lydia." 

Lydia indeed awaited him anxiously in the lower 
hall, her face a picture of distress. Amory sent her 
to his aunt, saying he would ring, for Bell if he 
needed attention. He took the opportunity as he 




JOUENEY'S END 

his lonely meal to look at the paper which had 
^en the immediate cause of Mrs. EusselFs attack. 
The reporter who covered the incident was 
'pleased to treat it facetiously, making much of the 
social prominence of the two involved, representing 
Elizabeth as ignoring her wrecked car in solicitude 
for her companion, and more than insinuating the 
existence of tender relations between them. Mi- 
nute biographical details were furnished, together 
with an account of the proceedings before the mag- 
istrate, and the article was illustrated by photo- 
graphs of both Clive and Elizabeth obtained at 
some charity festival the previous winter, and by a 
snapshot of the demolished window and damaged 
car. 

It was enough to disgust a far less fastidious man 
than Amory, but strangely enough, for the first 
time since Elizabeth repulsed his attempt to take 
her in his arms, he felt sorry for her, appreciated 
that though it was a bitter pill to him, to her it 
must be nauseous. At the same moment came a 
realization that her manner, defiant in the extreme, 
had only been that of a child who has been so ex- 
ceedingly naughty that it doesn't care what it does. 
Were he absolutely sure he could trust himself, 
Amory would have gone to Elizabeth at once and 
straightened the matter, but he was tired physically 
and troubled mentally. His lifelong training led 



CONSIDEKS AMOKY STUBBOKN 357 

him to reflect before taking definite action, to seek 
the inner guidance, and he stuck to his opinion 
that it was better to give Elizabeth time to cool 
down. 

Having finished his dinner he drove to the 
Averys'. Unlike Journey's End, Hillcrest was far 
from the water, commanding a wonderful sweep of 
sea and sky. Several newly-made millionaires cov- 
eted the site and were openly aggrieved that it 
seemed without price. 

Amory left his car at a side door and entered the 
house without ringing. He went directly to the big 
front room where Mr. Avery lay in bed, white and 
weak from his ordeal of the previous night. He 
was alone, with gaze bent on the distant sea. On 
the other side of that blue expanse Putnam was 
sleeping on the Field of Honor. As Amory came 
in he looked at him with a smile that had in it a 
touch of wistful affection. 

"How are you, Uncle Henry?" asked Amory, 
sitting down in a most unprofessional manner on 
the side of the bed and taking in both his own the 
hand outstretched to greet him. 

" Very glad to see my special physician and very 
proud of you, Amory," was the quiet answer. " I 
gave you a tough job and you put it through." 

"I'm mighty thankful I could help you," said 
Amory simply. " While Freeport is rather limited 



358 JOURNEY'S END 

as a field, it is worth wMle because of tlie service I 
can be to a few." 

Henry Avery's eyes rested on bim with a curious 
intentness. " I don't think you will ever regret 
your decision to practise in Freeport. And mind, 
Amory, when you send your bill, make it equivalent 
to the appreciation I feel." 

Amory laughed. " It will be a distant day when 
you get a bill from me, Uncle Henry. There are 
two classes to whom I mean to give gratuitous serv- 
ice all my life ; the extremely poor and the people I 
love. I'd as soon send a bill to Aunt Eunice as to 
you ! " 

Mr. Avery smiled. " I am willing to be indebted, 
Amory," he said quietly. " I knew last night that 
my physician was inspired by affection as well as 
skill. I wish Robert had lived to see you 
now." 

After a pause he went on. " I hope you had an 
easy day after your strenuous time with me." 

Amory was still sitting on the bed. He drew up 
one ankle and clasped it in a boyish manner. " I 
had a funny customer this afternoon," he said, " a 
Chinese. Uncle Henry, did you ever hear of a 
Tong? " 

Mr. Avery considered. "I think I have heard 
the word, but I can't recall how nor where. In 
what connection was it usedf ^ 



CONSIDEKS AMOKY STUBBOKN 359 

Amory related the conversation which took place 
in his ofQ.ce. 

" That was some sort of warning, Amory," said 
Mr. Avery in surprise. 

"I am sure the old codger intended it as a 
kindness, but I'll be hanged if I understand 
what he was driving at. I suspect that though 
he really came to have his hand attended to, 
he knew about the queer doings at Journey's 
End." . 

" Tong," mused Mr. Avery. " Hold on, it is com- 
ing to me. Why, Amory, that is the Chinese name 
for a secret society or brotherhood. Years ago 
there was a murder here in Freeport, when the pro- 
prietor of the Chinese restaurant was killed, and it 
was due to his having in some way disobeyed the 
Tong to which he belonged. There was consider- 
able discussion at the time — ^you would not remem- 
ber because you were too young — but I recall that 
I then learned that there are numerous Tongs, 
some very powerful, existing in all classes of Chi- 
nese society. You didn't get any hint as to why 
one of these brotherhoods has become interested in 
Journey's End? " 

" Only that the Tong wanted ' it,' whatever * it ' 
is, and he advised me to let them have ^it.' He 
distinctly said that they intended me no harm un- 
less I got in the way." 



360 JOUKNEY'S END 

" What is there in the east parlor likely to inter- 
est a Chinese? " 

" The vases or possibly the ivory dragon on the 
mantel. But both have stood there all my life and 
why on earth should any Chinese society suddenly 
develop an interest in either? " 

" That I can't explain, but I do know that under 
a thin veneer of civilization they are a strange na- 
tion, full of superstition. Perhaps your first vis- 
itor, the one who disappeared so oddly, was inter- 
ested in that dragon and has told others." 

" Well ! " said Amory, suddenly recollecting his 
sister's letters. " Caroline wrote me an insane lot 
of gibberish about an amulet and an evil spirit. 
What do you think of all that? " he inquired, hav- 
ing given a synopsis of those letters. 

" Just as you do, that this is the twentieth cen- 
tury and we are far removed from evil sorcerers 
and familiar demons. But because we do not be- 
lieve does not prevent others from being credulous, 
and as I said, the Chinese are extraordinarily su- 
perstitious, particularly in their belief in devils. 
It would not surprise me, putting together Caro- 
line's fantastic story and the warning from your 
patient to-day, to find that the dragon is of peculiar 
interest to some Tong, whose members wish to ob- 
tain possession of it." 

" If I were superstitious, I might think it had an 



CONSIDEKS AMORY STUBBORN 361 

evil eye, and it is strange how I broke tlie glass and 
Lydia broke her finger and then I fell down-stairs 
and sprained my ankle " 

He stopped short. There was a fresh calamity 
to add to the list. In that room, in the presence of 
the dragon, he had held his fateful interview with 
Elizabeth and Mrs. Russell experienced her ill turn. 

"The accidents are merely coincidences," said 
Mr. Avery, " but it is an unfortunate thing to en- 
counter superstition in others. Has your burglar 
alarm been put in? " 

" Not yet. There is some unexpected delay ; wire 
lacking, I understand." 

"And do you and Eunice place any great value 
on the dragon? " 

" I don't, and I am certain she has no affection 
for it." 

" Then I would get it out of Journey's End ; in 
fact, I should speed its going. Why not lend it to 
the Boston Art Museum? It is a fine piece of carv- 
ing, and they would doubtless be glad to exhibit it." 

" That's a bright idea. Uncle Henry. I believe I 
will write and ask if they would care to have it. 
Your theory sounds plausible, but I'd be interested 
to know more about the Tong and lohy they want 
the dragon, if that's what they are after. Oh, 
here's Aunt Ruth." 

"I did not know you came, Amory," said Mrs. 



362 JOUKNEY'S END 

Avery. ' ; 5t noticed your car and cook told me 
you had been iiere half an hour, so I hurried to see 
whether you and Henry were just having a visit or 
whether he needed you." 

"We were only talking, and it is time I went. 
Aunt Eunice was not feeling very well." 

" Not serious, I hope? " asked Mr. Avery. 

" She is herself now and was resting when I left. 
Good-night, Uncle Henry.^^ 

" Good-night, my son. I feel the better for your 
visit. Euth, I should like to see the evening paper." 

" I will bring it presently," said Mrs. Avery in a 
voice which told Amory volumes. When they were 
in the hall she turned and embraced him. 

" I am so sorry," she said gently, " so sorry for 
both you and Elizabeth, but more so for her. I am 
greatly drawn to Elizabeth and I know it will be a 
terrible thing to her to have hurt you, Amory, for 
this is hard for you. But, dear, we were all young 
once, and we make allowances for youthful gaiety 
and folly. In a short time this will be forgotten, 
and, indeed, I cannot see that there is anything to 
criticize except a little indiscretion. But I am 
troubled, Amory, because I fear that you were in- 
tending to take Elizabeth to the dance and that 
Henry's illness prevented your going." 

"Nothing could induce me to go when I was 
needed here. Thank you. Aunt Ruth — you are a 



CONSIDERS AMORY STUBBORN 363 

brick to stand by Elizabeth. I do feel sore about it 
and I can't relieve my feelings by pitching into 
Templeton because the engagement wasn't public. 
Since I couldn't take her, Elizabeth had a perfect 
right to go with him if she wished, and the rest was 
merely bad luck. It is pretty sickening, but we 
shall pull through." 

He kissed her and went directly home. As he 
drove into the garage he looked longingly at the 
house next door, but no one was on the porch and 
the windows were blank. Having put up his car, 
he went to his office, intending to take something 
for Mrs. Russell's use should she be wakeful. To 
his surprise there lay conspicuously on his desk a 
large square envelope. On its exterior in Eliza- 
beth's penmanship was written : " Do not try to 
see me." 

Amory opened the envelope and from it fell the 
sapphire ring he had given Elizabeth. 



CHAPTER XXVI 

IN WHICH ELIZABETH REPENTS VERY MUCH AT HBB 

LEISURE 

ACCORDING to liis promise, Mr. Emerson 
stood by his daughter loyally, but he would 
have been well on the way toward sainthood 
had he not been annoyed by the newspaper public- 
ity. True, he knew it imminent and was in a way 
prepared, but when the shock came, it was none the 
less disagreeable. Even the Boston papers took up 
the incident. 

Coming out on the five o'clock train from town, 
Mr. Emerson was obliged to endure numerous com- 
ments, most of them humorous, upon his daughter's 
latest escapade, and he was too sore to realize that 
none were intentionally unkind. That a high-spir- 
ited athletic girl, impatient of restraint, should 
overstep the bounds of good taste, was to outsiders 
a mere matter of amusement, not the serious affair 
it seemed to those involved in the catastrophe. Mr. 
Emerson put on a good face and none of the men 
who chaffed him in the smoker during the run to 
Freeport suspected that he was particularly rujffled. 

364 



ELIZABETH KEPENTS 365 

He was suf6.ciently out of temper on reaching the 
house to be relieved to hear that Elizabeth had 
gone to bed with a severe headache and would not 
come down again. 

Her indisposition was no pretence; she was 
frankly sick and spent an uncomfortable night 
physically and a worse one mentally. When Mr. 
Emerson looked in upon her after breakfast the 
next morning his indignation vanished at sight of 
her face. 

" Why, Bess, my little girl," he said sympathetic- 
ally. 

Elizabeth took his hand and laid her hot cheek 
against it. She was literally unable to lift her 
head. 

" I wouldn't feel so badly," he went on, smooth- 
ing her hair as he spoke. " It will all blow over in 
a few days." 

His daughter made no response but lay with eyes 
closed, her long lashes dark against a perfectly 
colorless face. 

^^After all, Bess, I'll stand for the damages to 
your car. They'll set you back a couple of hun- 
dred. Send the bill to me." 

Elizabeth kissed his hand and tried to smile. 
" No, Dad, I'll pay them myself. But will you let 
me go away? " 

" To Bar Harbor? " queried her father. 



366 JOURNEY'S END 

"Anywhere but there ! " said Elizabeth with a 
shudder. "No, to the farm in the Berk- 
shires." 

" There's nobody there but the farmer and his 
wife. You wouldn't like it." 

" I want to get away from Freeport." 

" Well, we'll see. You aren't fit to go anywhere 
at present. I don't like your looks at all. Let me 
telephone Amory to come over." 

Elizabeth sat up suddenly. "If you do. Dad, 
I'll — I'll go out and drown myself ! " she announced 
desperately and, to the consternation of her father, 
fell back in a dead faint. 

" Bless my soul ! " he exclaimed, and, man-like, 
called for help. None of the maids happened to be 
within hearing. Mr. Emerson blundered into 
Elizabeth's bathroom and, after upsetting and de- 
molishing a bottle of toilet water, discovered one 
of ammonia, which proved effective. Elizabeth 
pushed it from her with a gasp. 

" Now, look here, Bess," said her father gravely, 
when she was herself again, "you are making a 
mountain out of a mole-hill. You haven't done 
anything bad enough to make yourself ill over. 
What's come to you? Why shouldn't Amory come 
and see you in my presence even though you are in 
bed? He's a doctor and I'm your father. What's 
happened? " 



ELIZABETH REPENTS 367 

" I have broken my engagement," said Elizabeth 
faintly. 

Her father was silent for a moment. "I sup- 
pose you know what you are doing," he said at 
length, "but I can tell you that Amory Russell 
is not a man with whom you can play fast and 
loose. He is as proud as Lucifer. You say 
you broke it. Did he accept the break without 
protest? " 

"I don't know. I sent back my ring and told 
him not to try to see me." 

" Oh, Lord ! " groaned Mr. Emerson, " what fools 
young people can be ! Bess, you certainly are one, 
and I suppose if I should hear the whole story, 
Amory is also." 

" Dad," said Elizabeth, " I really cannot stand it 
if you disapprove of me any harder." 

" Well, promise me one thing, Bess. Promise 
that you won't go out of town without my knowl- 
edge." 

" Very well," said his daughter. 

"And if you won't see Amory, will you let me 
call Dr. Utter? " 

" No doctor can help me. Dad." 

" One could," said her father sententiously. 
" Have it as you please, Bess, but if you care for my 
advice, it is not to wreck your life's happiness 
through a fit of recklessness. And if I don't find 



368 JOtJENEY'S END 

you looking better at noon I shall send for Utter 
whether you like it or not." 

Elizabeth made no reply and he left her to go to 
his ofELce, after charging Sally to look after Miss 
Bess, which the kind-hearted Irish girl did to the 
best of her ability. Elizabeth's first request was 
that she should telephone next door and inquire for 
Mrs. Russell. 

Sally came back with the news that Mrs. Russell 
was somewhat tired and was keeping her room but 
was otherwise as well as usual. 

" Who answered? " asked Elizabeth, lying with 
closed eyes. 

" The colored girl who waits on the doctor. 
Wouldn't you like a cup of hot coffee, Miss 
Bess?" 

Sally instantly regretted the suggestion, for the 
very idea made Elizabeth violently sick. The room 
swam in waves before her. When she was com- 
paratively comfortable again, she told Sally to 
draw the curtains and leave her. " I'll ring if I 
want anything," she said, and resigned herself to 
misery. 

In a few minutes Sally came back. " BeU has 
brought a note from Journey's End," she said. 
" She's waiting for an answer." 

With an effort Elizabeth forced herself to look 
at the envelope, and was both relieved and disap- 



ELIZABETH KEPENTS 369 

pointed to see that it was directed in Mrs. Russell's 
delicate penmanship. She tore it open. 

" Dear Elizabeth, will thee come to me when it is 
convenient? Mj heart aches for thee and I think 
it will comfort us both to talk quietly together. 
Amory has gone to make some calls but he insists 
that I keep my room and we shall be uninterrupted, 
I am quite well again, and I love thee so much, my 
Elizabeth. 

" Eunice M. Russell." 

Crushing the note against her cheek, Elizabeth 
fought back the tears she could not shed before 
Sally. 

"Please give me an envelope and some paper 
from my desk. And you needn't wait. I feel so 
sick that I can't write quickly. Tell Bell the an- 
swer will take ten or fifteen minutes. No, I can't 
manage ink, — give me a pencil." 

Elizabeth propped herself on one elbow, found 
she could not endure even that, and after an inter- 
val of faintness, half -blinded by tears as she was, 
managed to scrawl a reply. 

" I would come if I could, dear Aunt Eunice, but 
I am in bed with a sick headache. I am afraid I 
cannot get up to-day. Don't be sorry for me. I 
deserve to feel worse than I do. I am thankful you 
are better. My heart is broken to think how I have 
hurt you and Amory. I shall always love you. 

** Elizabeth/^ 



370 JOUEKEY'S END 

Placing the note in its envelope, she sealed it and 
rang for Sally. Then she resigned herself to an- 
other period of physical misery after which she 
slept from sheer exhaustion. 

In her big quiet chamber Mrs. Eussell read the 
pathetic little letter, read it more than once, as 
she sat considering in her white chair by the win- 
dow. When Amory came to her that morning, he 
looked as though he had slept poorly and he did not 
mention Elizabeth. Evidently the night had 
brought him no guidance, for he seemed in the same 
quietly obstinate mood. He did not tell his aunt of 
Elizabeth's final outbreak and she did not guess 
that matters were still worse with him, though the 
word " always " as used by Elizabeth in the last 
sentence of her note had a tone of finality which 
puzzled Mrs. Kussell. She had hoped much from 
the interview she planned, trusting that Elizabeth 
might prove more pliable than Amory. Still there 
was a chance that he would be touched by the little 
note. 

She showed it to him when he came again to her 
room at the conclusion of his ofS.ce hour, his duties 
ended for the day unless for some unexpected call. 
He was very quiet and looked tired but was, as al- 
ways, full of affectionate concern for her. 

"Amory," she asked after her usual inquiries 
as to his patients, "do I remember correctly in 



ELIZABETH REPENTS 371 

thinking that Admiral Fiske put an elevator into 
the house next door for the convenience of his in- 
valid wife? " 

" I believe there is one," agreed Amory, who was 
sitting on the foot of her couch. 

" Then thee will not object if I go to see Eliza- 
beth, since I shall not have to climb the stairs. I 
wrote her a note this morning asking her to come 
to me, but she is ill. There is her reply." 

Amory read the note in silence, and his aunt's 
loving eyes saw no change in his expression. 

"Elizabeth is suffering," she said, after giving 
him ample opportunity to speak if he were so in- 
clined. " I should like to do what is possible for 
her comfort since she is alone with servants. At 
my request Lydia telephoned half an hour ago and 
was told that she was yet unable to lift her head 
from her pillow. Does thee still feel that she is un- 
repentant for the pain she gave thee? " 

"No, Aunt Eunice," said ber nephew very 
quietly. 

" Then will thee not let me give her some mes- 
sage, or write one for me to take, if thee prefers." 

Amory was still silent and his apparent reluc- 
tance really shocked Mrs. Russell. 

" Amory," she said with as much severity as she 
could bring herself to use toward him, " I am as- 
tonished at thy attitude. Thy continued resent- 



372 JOUKNEY'S END 

ment seems to me both cruel and unjust. Eliza- 
beth admits that she is heart-broken, — ^what more 
does thee await? " 

" Thee misunderstands me," said Amory, speak- 
ing with an effort. " I am powerless to do anything 
at present. Elizabeth sent back the ring I gave her 
and commanded me to make no effort to see 
her.'' 

Mrs. Russell sighed. " My poor Elizabeth ! " she 
said after a long pause. " Surely, Amory, thee will 
not take that prohibition seriously. Does thee not 
understand that Elizabeth in her great penitence 
is but punishing herself? " 

" And me at the same time. Aunt Eunice, I will 
not have thee troubled. I have forgiven Elizabeth, 
— ^yes, even for making thee ill. She has hurt me, 
but she warned me that she was liable to do so. I 
shall not accept her dismissal as final until she 
confirms it in spoken words, and I cannot bring 
myself to think she will say them, but I don't know 
what to do next. I went to her house last night 
after finding her message and the ring, but she was 
already in bed and refused to come down." 

" Oh, I am glad thee did that, Amory. I only 
hope she will not fly off to Bar Harbor or to some 
other place before granting thee a chance to see 
her. For as soon as you can see each other, she will 
relent. I understand now why she thus ended this 



ELIZABETH REPENTS 373 

letter. But, dear, — she is ill, — ^perhaps she would 
see thee as a physician." 

" No hope of that. I met Mr. Emerson who said 
he suggested my coming and that she would not 
hear of it. From his report, she is in a very nervous 
condition. I can't do anything at all until she is 
more composed. I couldn't visit her merely in my 
professional capacity. Aunt Eunice; I feel too in- 
tensely to trust myself to remain impersonal." 

" If she would only let thee come, she would not 
wish thee to remain impersonal," sighed his aunt. 
" I owe thee an apology for my reproof just now. 
Thee did not deserve it; thee has done all thee 
could. But what thee says makes me doubt whether 
it is wise to go to her as I intended. Perhaps I 
would better wait until to-morrow." 

" Elizabeth seems in such a state that thy going 
may not better matters, and I can't have thee agi- 
tated, Aunt Eunice. Doesn't thee think thee'd bet- 
ter write another note, saying thee will come to- 
morrow if she is feeling well enough? " 

" Perhaps that is wise. I can keep myself calm, 
but Elizabeth is another matter and the poor child 
has had all she can bear. Hand me my portfolio, 
Amory, and I will send by Bell." 

Her nephew brought her the leather case and re- 
mained silent while she wrote. " Perhaps thee 
would care to add a postscript," she suggested, 



CHAPTER XXVn 

m WHICH ELIZABETH CHANGES HER MIND 

MRS. RUSSELL was spared the effort of 
making her proposed visit, for the next 
morning Elizabeth telephoned that she 
was feeling much better and would come to Jour- 
ney's End about ten, an hour when she knew Amory 
would not be at home. She waited until she saw 
the coup4 with its little green cross leave the gar- 
age next door and go slowly down the street. 

It was a pale and rather shaky Elizabeth who ap- 
peared to Mrs. Russell in the west sitting-room 
where a pleasant breeze came through from the sea. 
She showed plainly that she was suffering, yet she 
was rather unnaturally calm and exhibited only 
slight emotion when drawn into the loving embrace 
that awaited her. 

"Elizabeth, my dear child," said Mrs. Russell 
affectionately, and then she only petted her silently 
until she felt the tense young figure begin to relax. 

" I have come to say good-bye^ Aunt Eunice. I 

am going away for a while. Dad has a farm out in 

376 



ELIZABETH CHANGES HER MIND 377 

the Berkshires and I have induced him to think 
he'd like to motor there and see how things are 
going. There's a nice little farmhouse and I am 
planning to stay for a month or two." 

Mrs. Russell made no comment but something in 
her manner compelled Elizabeth to add a few more 
words. " I cannot stay in Freeport, Aunt Eunice." 

"It has always seemed to me that when one 
makes a mistake, it is a good plan to face it and live 
it down on the spot. And is thee not exaggerating 
the importance of this one? " 

"It is pretty big," said the girl despondently. 
Then she turned and put her arms about Mrs. Rus- 
selFs neck. " I am ashamed to stay," she admitted, 
" I have not looked you in the face. I cannot." 

" Dear, does thee think I judge thee harshly? " 

"I don't believe you judge me at all. I cant 
bear myself/' 

" Thee will take thyself to Berkshire and find it 
no more bearable there. Thee will have the same 
company only under a changed sky." 

There was a long pause and then Elizabeth asked 
a question. "What would you advise me to do, 
Aunt Eunice? " 

" If I tell thee, will thee do it? It is the only 
possible way to set right again the trouble and con- 
fusion into which thy impetuosity has drawn people 
who love thee." 



378 JOUKNEY'S END 

" What is it? I can't promise without knowing." 

" Nothing very difficult. I would tell thee to go 
to, the stone seat in the lilac walk and wait there 
till I send Amory to thee. That is thy direct path 
to peace." 

Elizabeth shivered. "You don't understand, 
Aunt Eunice. I can't marry Amory. I can't do it. 
In the beginning I thought perhaps I could. I meant 
to try so hard to be worthy of his love, and just see 
what I did — the first time things went cross-grained 
with me. I'm not fit to be a doctor's wife. I under- 
stood perfectly in the very beginning that Amory's 
time and attention belong to the people who need 
him, and my love wasn't equal to the first test that 
Game. I'm not the girl he ought to marry — I 
told him so. He ought to have somebody who can 
keep calm and who doesn't fly off the handle the 
way I do, somebody like Phebe Ames. He would 
have a peaceful life if he married her ; it'll never be 
peaceful with me." 

" Amory doesn't happen to love Phebe. That is 
one of the mysteries of life how and why, choice 
comes. I have never before known Amory to pay 
any girl more than passing attention till he met 
thee. His love is not the thing of a moment. Thee 
interested him from the first, and indeed, Elizabeth, 
I think thee is taking considerable upon thyself to 
decide the matter without giving him a chance to 



ELIZABETH CHANGES HER MIND 379 

speak. Thee is honest by nature; does it seem to 
thee really fair to expect him to accept thy dis- 
missal without an interview? He has a right to an 
explanation. Thee must admit that." 

" I don^t dare see him, Aunt Eunice." 

" And why not? " 

" Because I love him so much," admitted Eliza- 
beth just above a whisper. 

" Oh, what a silly little girl ! Thee loves Amory 
and he loves thee, and yet for a foolish scruple, thee 
would bring unhappiness upon both. Can thee not 
trust that love to help thee over whatever difficul- 
ties may come? Really, Elizabeth, I wish that thee 
was ten years old. I would put thee to bed and 
keep thee there till thee came to thy senses." 

Elizabeth laughed hysterically. 

" Dear," Mrs. Russell went on, " I respect thee 
for wishing to be more worthy of love. Did thee 
ever hear the story of the missionary who toiled 
in a hard and discouraging field? Finally he wrote 
to his bishop and asked to be relieved, saying that 
God needed a better man than he for that especial 
work. And the bishop wrote back saying: *It is 
true that a better man is needed for that field, but 
God wants you to fee that better man.' Read thy 
own lesson, Elizabeth. Out of all the world, Amory 
has chosen thee ; can thee not rise to the occasion? " 

" I don't see how he can keep on caring for me/' 



380 JOUENEY'S END 

sobbed Elizabeth. "Aunt Eunice, it is truly be- 
cause I love him that I want him to feel free, now 
I have got myself into such a mess and made myself 
so talked about, and made you ill." 

" And thyself as well. Thee has relieved thy own 
conscience by returning the ring. I would not give 
a straw for Amory's love if it were capable of being 
seriously affected by this escapade, but it is not. 
He did not lay anything up against thee except my 
unfortunate illness, and he has forgiven that now. 

"Be absolutely honest, Elizabeth. Is thee not 
punishing thyself because thee feels the need of 
discipline? And does thee not see that thee is giv- 
ing equal pain to Amory? Thee has carried thy 
self -discipline quite far enough; thee is being self- 
ish. And love and selfishness cannot inhabit the 
same heart. Has thee ever heard this little poem? 

** 'Self is the only prison that can bind the soul, 
Love is the only angel that can bid the gates unroll. 
And when he comes to call thee, arise and follow 

fast; 
The way may lie through darkness, but it leads to 
light at last.' '' 

Mrs. Eussell did not understand Elizabeth's sud- 
den movement as she spoke the third line of the 
stanza, but it fell on the girPs ear with a profound 
shock, bringing back to her the occasion when she 



ELIZABETH CHANGES HER MIND 381 

first heard it, and all that had subsequently fol- 
lowed. 

Then came complete silence, during which Eliza- 
beth sat with black head bowed on Mrs. RusselPs 
shoulder. The clock in the hall struck twice and a 
passing car gave a toot which Mrs. Russell recog- 
nized, though the girl did not. 

" Has thee had time for meditation, dear? " she 
asked. " Will thee do as I advise thee? '' 

Elizabeth sat up straight and for the first time 
looked into the face beside her. 

" Oh, why didn't somebody teach me to be good 
before? " she asked with a touching quiver of her 
lips. " Yes, Aunt Eunice, I will see Amory, but I 
don't believe he stiD wants me." 

" It is sunny in the garden and I forgot that thy 
head may be sensitive. I will send Amory to thee 
here. I think that he just drove in. If he has an 
engagement I will come and tell thee." 

Mrs. Russell left the room and Elizabeth buried 
her face in the sofa pillows. Perhaps ten minutes 
passed before the door opened abruptly. 

This time Elizabeth did not repulse Amory. She 
wept but they were tears of healing and when every 
cloud of misunderstanding had been dispersed with 
loving words and penitent apologies on both sides, 
she let him put the sapphire ring again upon her 
finger. Only then did she utter a word of protest. 



382 JOURNEY'S END 

"It's a risk," she forced herself to say. "I 
can't be sure that I won't hurt you again, 
Amory." 

" We shall not disagree again," he said, kissing 
the finger where shone the blue stone. " I have 
learned my lesson. But, dear, there is one thing 
that I want done. I want our engagement an- 
nounced immediately." 

^^Nowf^^ exclaimed the petrified Elizabeth. 
^^ NoWy when everybody is talking about me?" 

"Yes," said Amory quietly. "I want to give 
you the protection of my name. Nothing will stop 
the unkind comments so effectively." 

Elizabeth again burst into tears. " I didn't sup- 
pose anybody could be so generous, Amory. You 
are a revelation to me." 

" I love you, Elizabeth, and where love is there 
can be no question of generosity. It is only what 
is your right, — ^to have me stand by you in a hard 
place. I will speak to your father at once and 
I hope your mother will consent. It could be done 
without any special fuss, just by mentioning it to 
a few friends." 

Elizabeth was silent, too moved by his tender 
consideration easily to express her feelings, but her 
silence was not misunderstood. Amory had already 
taken a long step toward comprehending Eliza- 
beth's rather complex nature. 



ELIZABETH CHANGES HER MIND 383 

"Your head still aches, doesn^t it?" he asked 
presently. " Let me see if I can help it." 

" What are you doing to me? " she asked in sur- 
prise a few minutes later. " The pain seems to be 
going under your touch." 

" Something that I can usually do for people I 
love, sometimes for others. Uncle Robert used to 
suffer from neuralgic headaches and I could often 
relieve him. It is simply a certain amount of mag- 
netic power I possess which at times reacts 
upon others. No, I don^t think it an uncommon 
power; many physicians have it to a greater or 
lesser extent. I have sometimes found it useful, 
especially with children, and it is with them that I 
hope to work eventually. One reason that I seemed 
cold to you the other day, Elizabeth, was because 
I had been giving somewhat of myself to Uncle 
Henry in this way, and I was tired." 

" People would never disagree if they only fully 
understood," said Elizabeth penitently. 

" ' To know all is to forgive all,' " quoted Amory. 
" How's your head? " 

" It has stopped aching entirely." 

"And you are not going to the Berkshires this 
afternoon? " 

"No. Poor Dad! I have kept him on pins 
and needles for two days. He told me I was 
a fool, which was a rude and unfatherly thing 



384 JOURNEY'S END 

» 

to say, but I will go home and tell Mm he was 
right." 

Amory laughed. " Will you come into the east 
parlor and let me hug you on the spot where we 
disagreed? " 

Elizabeth assented. Somewhat to their surprise 
they found Mrs. Russell there before them. It was 
seldom that she sat in that room and they supposed 
her on the terrace. 

" Thy naughty children have decided to be good," 
said Amory as they came to her. 

" And quite time," said Mrs. Russell, smiling as 
they took her between them. " Elizabeth, I think 
thee should at least lie down if thee is unwilling to 
retire to bed. Thee looks pale." 

" I am going to bed for the rest of the day," said 
Elizabeth quietly. "I promised Amory I would. 
This evening we are going sailing if I feel like it." 

"Be quite sure thee does feel like it. After a 
day's sickness, I should prefer a drive." 

" It is to be that, if she does not feel like the 
Whitewing/^ said Amory. "What has thee done 
with the dragon. Aunt Eunice? " 

" That is what I was about to ask of thee," re- 
plied his aunt, following his glance to the mantel 
where the green velvet mat lay in place, but un- 
occupied by the lordly carved monster. " Did thee 
not remove it? " 



ELIZABETH CHANGES HEE MIND 385 

"Not I. Perhaps Lydia has put it away from 
the dust in some case." 

" She says not and I do not believe Lydia would 
touch it. She foolishly attributes her injured hand 
to its unwillingness to be removed." 

" That's interesting ! " said Amory. His glance 
instantly traveled to the windows. Then he gave 
an exclamation and crossed the room. 

" That was what they were after and they have 
put the job over! See, here is a piece cut out of 
this pane above the catch. Somebody has entered 
and taken the dragon." 

" If it ends the attempted burglaries, I, for one, 
am not sorry to see the dragon go," admitted Mrs. 
Russell, when they had convinced themselves that 
at some time during the past night, a window had 
been forced and the house entered. " But those 
vases are valuable and they also are Chinese — ^why 
did the thief not take them? " 

Amory gave the explanation so far as he knew 
it, by putting together the warning from his 
Chinese patient, Caroline's letters and Uncle 
Henry's information concerning secret brother- 
hoods. That nothing was missing except the dragon 
seemed to prove the theory. 

" And a good riddance, too ! " he ended. " I 
shouldn't wonder if the unheard-of delay about the 
burglar-alarm was a part of the scheme, for as I 



386 JOUKNEY'S END 

drove home just now the electrician stopped me to 
say he would start work to-morrow." 

" I wonder whether we shall ever know anything 
more about it," Elizabeth said thoughtfully, when 
Mrs. Russell had gone to telephone for a glazier to 
repair the window. 

" Nothing is impossible," said Amory. " The 
dragon may yet come home to roost." 

" I hope he won^t. I never liked him ; he made 
me feel creepy and I think he made me hateful the 
other day. I said so much I never meant to say. 
Amory, you must acknowledge now that there was 
something in what that palmist told us. We did 
get mixed up in a mess — ^not physical danger, as I 
mistakenly took it to mean — but my recklessness 
and selfishness precipitated a storm that came near 
wrecking our happiness." 

" I still think the palmist knew nothing about it," 
said Amory in amusement, holding her in the em- 
brace she had promised. " But if you want to be- 
lieve it, go ahead, only admit that we have safely 
weathered the storm. But after this. Queen Bess, 
we will keep away from booths with palmists or 
fortune-tellers of any kind, yes — and from Chinese 
dragons that give you the creeps." 



CHAPTER XXVIU 

IN WHICH MBS. EMEBSON COMBS HOME AND JOHN 
HOWLAND VISITS HIS SAFE 

AFTER they discovered that the dragon was 
gone, Elizabeth went home and to a rest 
that truly deserved the name. Her cheek 
against the sapphire ring, she drifted into peaceful 
oblivion. 

The afternoon was well advanced before she 
roused to consciousness that she was no longer 
alone. 

" Goodness, Mother ! " she exclaimed. " Did you 
come home? What for? " 

" I shouldn't think you would need to ask, Eliza- 
beth," replied her mother, offering a cold caress. 
"Tuesday's papers are a sufficient reason, not to 
mention the letters I have received. I came home to 
see what can be done." 

" It's all over but the shouting," said Elizabeth 
lightly, lying down again with her face turned 
away. " I acted like an idiot and had to take the 
consequences." 

"You speak as though the consequences were 

387 



388 JOUKNEY'S END 

comprised merely in what happened to the car. Do 
you realize how people are talking about you? " 

" Let 'em," replied Elizabeth disrespectfully. 

" Grossip is not the trivial thing you consider it, 
and this time, Elizabeth, you have really over- 
stepped all bounds." 

^^ Except for the accident I did nothing I haven't 
done before." 

" That may be. This time you have incurred 
most imfortunate publicity." 

" It's horrid, I know, but is it the publicity you 
object to, or what I did? " 

" Elizabeth, you really are impossible. One led 
to the other." 

" But you wouldn't care what I did so long as 
nobody knew? I just want to get your point of 
view. Mother. Is it the being talked about that is 
the indiscretion? " 

" We will not discuss it," said Mrs. Emerson in 
her stateliest manner. "The important thing is 
what is to be done next. I am going to send for 
Amory and tell him that the engagement must be 
announced. That is the quickest way to stop the 
gossip." 

" If that's all, you needn't bother him, Mother,'* 
observed Elizabeth nonchalantly. " He has already 
told me that he wished it made public immediately 
and he's spoken to Dad." 



MKS. EMERSON COMES HOME 389 

Between her fingers, Elizabeth watched Mrs. 
Emerson's face and was pleased with the expres- 
sion of blank surprise which crossed it at this state- 
ment. Another she liked less succeeded it and the 
whole situation flashed upon Elizabeth. Her 
mother expected Amory to be sufficiently annoyed 
over her escapade to contemplate breaking the en- 
gagement and in order to prevent this catastrophe, 
she had abandoned her two older daughters and 
rushed to the rescue. 

A gleam of anger lighted Elizabeth's eyes, fol- 
lowed by a sudden conviction that it was impossible 
for Mrs. Emerson ever to understand Amory's na- 
ture, and that all discussion was useless. Why 
should she be angry with her mother for drawing 
conclusions after her own mind? — ^had not she, 
Elizabeth, also been small-minded enough to be 
overcome with surprise at his generosity? But a 
comforting thought followed, — she had loved 
Amory enough to try to spare him the embarrass- 
ment arising from her misdoing, and he had not 
wished to be spared. 

The flash of anger died down and Elizabeth left 
unuttered the hasty words that had been on her 
lips. She lay watching her mother's face and when 
Mrs. Emerson again spoke, her tone showed relief. 

" That Amory feels so simplifies matters very 
much," she said cheerfully. " Originally I planned 



390 JOUKNEY'S END 

a lunclieon, but tliat would mean more delay tlian is 
now desirable." 

" I don't want a lunclieon. Tell Mrs. Jardine ; 
she'll notify the entire town." 

" Alice Jardine will be surprised," said Mrs. Em- 
erson in satisfaction. "I shall be lunching with 
Mrs. Beeson to-morrow and I will drop a word. 
And you had better write notes to some of the 
girls." 

Elizabeth started to refuse impatiently, thought 
better of it and remained silent. 

" And of course you may wear your ring publicly. 
By the way, I have not looked at it. Let me see 
it." 

Drawing her hand from under her cheek, Eliza- 
beth reluctantly held it out. Her mother gave an 
exclamation. 

" I was disappointed when you wrote that it was 
not a diamond, but this is a wonderful stone, Bess. 
And its setting is most unusual. It must have cost 
several hundred dollars." 

" I haven't an idea of its value and I don't want 
to know," snapped Elizabeth, snatching back her 
hand. "I would love it if it wasn't worth ten 
cents." 

" You can rest assured that no girl of your set 
is likely to have a more valuable engagement ring. 
Some time when we are in Boston " 






MKS. EMERSON COMES HOME 391 

" Once and for all, Mother, I will not show my 
ring to any jeweler. Please understand that.'' 

" Elizabeth, do keep your temper. There's no 
reason for you to be so touchy. I only want you 
to realize that such a sapphire is no small gift and 
yet it is in perfect taste." 

"I know it!" sighed Elizabeth. "Oh, well, 
Mother, I'll try to be decent. Amory is going to 
take me out this evening if I feel like it. You can 
see him then but you won't need to try to manage 
him; his own fine instincts tell him what is the 
most considerate thing for me." 

" I am indeed relieved to find you both so reason- 
able. And how about your future plans? I sup- 
pose you will live at Journey's End, for Amory 
won't wish to leave his aunt. But I should have it 
distinctly understood in the beginning, Elizabeth, 
that I was to be mistress in my own house, and I 
should dismiss old Lydia. The other servants will 
probably be easier to get on with." 

"You overlook one thing. Mother,'^ said Eliza- 
beth after a pause in which she was struggling to 
control herself. "Journey's End will indeed be 
under the charge of its mistress — and she happens 
to be Mrs. Robert Russell. I don't think Mrs. 
Amory will take her place." 

" You will have difficulties unless things are dis- 
tinctly understood before you go there." 



392 JOUENEY'S END 

" Journey's End belongs to Aunt Eunice. She 
has told me that she is delighted to have Amory 
bring me home. What financial arrangements 
Amory will make, I don't know and I don't care. 
I only know that I shall never do or say one thing 
to make Aunt Eunice feel she must step aside. And 
as for old Lydia, I can assure you that when she is 
past helpfulness, the pleasantest room in Journey's 
End will be placed at her disposal and a nurse en- 
gaged to wait on her as long as she lives. That's 
the way the Russells do things, Mother." 

" Well, we won't discuss the matter to-day. Are 
you sick or just resting? " 

"I was sick yesterday. I am going to get up 
presently. You look tired yourself. Mother; why 
don't you lie down? There's nothing to see to, for 
I ordered dinner and you'll have nearly two hours 
before Dad comes home. How are the girls? " 

Mrs. Emerson told her while gradually leaving 
the room. When she was really gone, her daughter 
drew a long sigh of relief, and then resolved that if 
it were a possible thing, she would not permit her- 
self to be ruffled by anything her mother might do, 
and that she would take quietly and cheerfully the 
stir inevitably raised by the making public of her 
engagement. 

It proved considerable, coming so soon upon the 
notoriety Elizabeth had recently attained, and yet 



MES. EMEKSON COMES HOME 393 

the wisdom of the announcement was at once ap- 
parent. After the first incredulous exclamations, 
her little world uttered others of surprised con- 
gratulation, of more respectful comment upon her 
escapade, veering to the opinion that there was 
more in the affair than had yet been made public, 
and finally placing the blame where much of it 
really belonged, at Olive Templeton^s door. Eliza- 
beth was truly amazed at the shelter and protection 
afforded by Amory's name. 

Amory himself took his place as her acknowl- 
edged suitor with a grave dignity, their first public 
appearance being at the Saturday night dance at 
the Yacht Club, properly chaperoned by Elizabeth's 
mother. To encounter that assemblage cost Eliza- 
beth some embarrassment, but she came with a quiet 
manner that carried her over the first awkward 
moments in the dressing-room where she was the 
recipient of many congratulations, sincere or half- 
envious. She had been fearful of encountering 
Clive, but that young gentleman, perceiving public 
opinion turning against him, had taken hims#f out 
of town. 

Amory's manner was perfect and the evening was 
not half over before Elizabeth came to complete 
realization that she would not be haunted by her 
past misdeeds. Her mother appreciated this fact 
even earlier, and heard with solid satisfaction the 



394 JOUENEY'S END 

respectful congratulations. She gave no sign that 
she thought what some frankly said, that Eliza- 
beth was a fortunate girl. To Mrs. Jardine she 
was very gracious, expatiated upon its being a 
love-match pure and simple, originating in the 
many tastes they shared in common, and acknowl- 
edged the probability of an early wedding. Mrs. 
Jardine had hard work to conceal her mortification 
but managed on the whole to keep a serene face, 
though inwardly boiling with wrath over Mrs. Em- 
erson's complacency. 

Doris, however, one of a bevy of young girls 
crowding around to admire Elizabeth's ring, took 
the opportunity to give her hand a sudden squeeze. 
" Everybody is congratulating you, Bess," she whis- 
pered. "I'm going to congratulate Dr. Russell. 
The luck isn't all yours." 

Elizabeth caught her in an impulsive embrace. 
" That's the sweetest thing anybody has said to- 
night," she answered, and Doris, looking into her 
eyes, found there a look no one else had seen. 

She was as good as her word and did speak to 
Amory, who had asked her for a dance. The sight 
of them, talking earnestly as they danced, caused 
Mrs. Jardine an extra pang. Amory was absorbed 
in what Doris was saying, but how could she know 
that they talked of Elizabeth? 

The echoes of that engagement reached other 



MRS. EMERSON COMES HOME 395 

circles of Freeport. Elizabeth and her mother 
were presently receiving calls from the very exclu- 
sive one that represented old Freeport, the long-es- 
tablished wealthy families, some of them Friends, 
who had never mingled much with more recent 
comers. These calls completed Mrs. Emerson's 
deep satisfaction. There could be no x)ossible doubt 
that her daughter's engagement to Dr. Russell had 
opened to her every desirable door in town. 

Nor did the interest in the affair end with its 
purely social aspects. It was spoken of in numer- 
ous places of business, and one afternoon when 
Amory and Elizabeth were out in the Whiteioingj 
a conversation took place in a certain down-town 
office, which would have been of intense interest to 
both. The office was that of John Howland, and the 
talk took place between him and Henry Avery, who 
had called on a matter of business. Having ar- 
ranged it, something caused the lawyer to refer to 
Mrs. Russell, and from her they passed to Amory. 

" What do you think of his engagement? " John 
Howland asked. " Do you know the girl? " 

" Slightly. Amory has brought her to the house. 
Yes, on the whole, I feel attracted to Elizabeth." 

" My Jack seems to like her, but my wife thinks 
she has been rather fast. Can Amory stand 
that? " 

"Elizabeth struck me as a high-spirited girl," 



396 JOUKNEY'S END 

observed Mr. Avery thoughtfully, "but as a girl 
who was really pure and sweet, though she may 
be guilty of some youthful indiscretions. Eunice 
seems fond of her and Eunice is a good judge. I 
think Amory is very much in love with Elizabeth 
and she with him. Amory himself is so fine, that 
his love will lift hers to its own level. They enjoy 
a good deal in common, and that is a good basis for 
a happy marriage. I should say that Elizabeth 
was the pick of the Emerson girls, that is for char- 
acter and possibilities of development. I should 
feel very badly if Amory made an unfortunate 
choice, but I believe we can trust him to know what 
he is doing. He is not a boy who is governed by 
impulse." 

"No," said John Howland, "not like poor 
Charles. I should like to know how much of 
Amory's poise is natural and how much is due to 
his home training. I wish Robert had lived to see 
how well he is turning out." 

The eyes of the two met and there was in their 
gaze the consciousness of some knowledge in com- 
mon. 

" Did you hear," John Howland went on, " about 
George McKim's girl? She was taken seriously ill 
the other night and they called Utter. He was puz- 
zled, for the symptoms were extremely peculiar and 
blind. He worked over her half the night and ^e 



MRS. EMERSON COMES HOME 397 

grew steadily worse. Finally McKim begged him to 
call in another doctor and he chose Amory. Amory 
diagnosed it as appendicitis and advised an im- 
mediate operation. I don't understand the tech- 
nicalities of the case, but Utter maintained it 
couldn't be that from the locality of the pain. 
Amory stuck to his opinion and Utter finally agreed 
that though the symptoms were peculiar no other 
theory covered them. So he withdrew his objection 
and asked Amory to operate. They waited only 
for the dawn and, as soon as it was light enough, 
Utt^r administered the ether and Amory did the 
job. His diagnosis was perfectly correct; it was 
an obscure and most unusual case of appendicitis, 
and Gertrude could not have lived two hours longer 
without the operation. Utter admits it generously 
and gives Amory full credit. McKim told me 
all about it with the tears rolling down his 
face." 

" Amory did a rather wonderful thing for Alex- 
ander Hudson's baby grandson," said Mr. Avery 
thoughtfully, " some operation that is very difficult 
on such a tiny child. And he was called to Boston 
yesterday in consultation by some man who had 
known him in France. I think it remarkable that 
he should so soon inspire such confidence in his 
abilities." 

Again his eyes met those of the lawyer. " John," 



398 JOUKNEY'S END 

he asked, after a glance at the door leading into the 
outer office, " how long is it going to be before that 
trust in Kobert's will reaches maturity? " 

"Less than two years, I think," Mr. Howland 
replied in a low tone. "Those securities Kobert 
set aside have increased tremendously in value. 
The trust will cumulate considerably before the 
time Eobert anticipated." 

" It looks as though other things would be ready 
for it. Let me take a look at those conditions, 
John." 

Mr. Howland locked the office door and went to 
the safe in the corner. 

"Has Amory ever asked you any questions?" 
inquired Mr. Avery, watching him open it and un- 
lock an inner compartment. 

" Only one, whether his aunt knew the purpose 
of the trust. I told him she did not and he has 
never spoken of it again. I don't think it occurs 
to him that it can concern him. Here are the con- 
ditions." 

He took out a single sheet of paper which the 
two read in silence. 

"WelM," said Henry Avery thoughtfully. 
" Even in these days of high prices, that ought to 
build and equip as large a hospital as Freeport will 
ever need. And the endowment — ^how much do you 
calculate that will bring in yearly? " 



MKS. EMERSON COMES HOME 399 

"It should be around thirty thousand, more 
rather than less." 

" With that plant and backing, Amory ought to 
be able to do about everything he is likely to want 
to do." 

Taking the paper, Mr. Avery read aloud : " ' The 
same board of trustees to be a self-perpetuating 
body, serving without pay ; the physician in charge 
of this hospital to be my nephew, Amory Russell, if 
in the opinion of the said board of trustees he has 
shown himself to be possessed of the necessary pro- 
fessional requirements, and as a man has proved 
himself responsible and trustworthy. If for any 
reason he does not wish to accept the position or is 
considered by the board unfitted for its great re- 
sjwnsibilities, they shall have full power to choose 
a physician qualified to discharge its duties. But 
it is my earnest hope that my nephew may prove 
himself equal to this opportunity. I hope that he 
may choose Freeport as the place to begin his prac- 
tice and by the time this trust matures, may have 
established himself in the confidence and respect of 
the town.' " 

Henry Avery laid down the paper and took off his 
glasses. "I think," he said thoughtfully, "the 
trustees, — ^you and Andrew and I — ^will be of one 
mind. Amory has certainly come up to what Rob- 
ert hoped and expected of him. And on the day 



400 JOURNEY'S END 

that trust is made public, Amory will have the sur- 
prise of his life." 

" His staying in Freeport is no part of the con- 
ditions, merely a wish on Robert's part, but still I 
am glad that it worked out that way. I went so 
far as to tell Amory when, at Mrs. Russell's re- 
quest, he asked my advice, that I thought he would 
not lose by doing what seemed obviously his duty 
to his aunt." 

" And I," observed Henry Avery, smiling, " told 
him that I thought he would not regret his decision 
to stay in Freeport. 

" Of course," he went on, " Ruth knows nothing 
of this trust and I cannot say anything to her until 
it matures. From Robert's directions, the hospital 
is to be a general one, but I have noticed that 
Amory is especially interested in children and 
seems to have success in dealing with them. I have 
made up my mind when the time comes, to make 
an additional endowment, and by the way, John, I 
want this put into a codicil to my will. Get it into 
shape for me later. This endowment is to be for a 
children's ward, or perhaps a separate building if 
it seems best, but to be in Amory 's charge, and it is 
to be known as the Putnam Avery Memorial." 

There fell a silence during which John Howland 
looked out of the office window. After a time 
Henry Avery spoke again. 



MRS. EMERSON COMES HOME 401 

" Unless," he said deliberately, " you and Emily 
would like to go shares with Ruth and me, and 
make it in memory of both Tom and Putnam. 
Somehow, I think that would please Amory even 



CHAPTER XXrX 

IN WHICH AMORY AND ELIZABETH GO OUT IN THE 
WHITEWINQ AND THE DRAGON VANISHES FOREVER 

WHILE this momentous conversation was 
going on, Amory and Elizabeth, entirely 
unaware that they were the subject of 
any discussion, were in the Whitewing, scudding 
before a fair wind toward the open sea. 

Elizabeth did not know their destination and 
Amory would not tell her. He was in a mischievous 
boyish mood which she had learned to recognize as 
liable to follow upon a period of professional strain. 
As a sort of safety valve he would tease her gently 
or break out in some prankish performance which 
amused her. To-day a fairly large steamer lay 
temporarily disabled in the tide-way and Amory, 
seizing his megaphone, quite gravely offered her a 
tow. The passengers, crowding to the rail to watch 
the Whitewing pass, roared with laughter. 

Elizabeth laughed too. She held the tiller and 
Amory, in his rubber-soled shoes, stood on the gun- 
wale, clutching a stay. He looked a mere boy with 
his hair on end in the wind and the captain doubt- 

402 



THE DRAGON VANISHES FOREVER 403 

less took hint for one as he calmly advised him 
** not to get fresh, sonny ! '' 

" Don't you feel properly set down? " asked 
Elizabeth as they left the steamer behind and 
Amory came aft to her, his eyes yet full of fun. 

"Frightfully squelched. Don't you notice my 
dejection? " 

" I haven't so far. I should think you'd feel aw- 
fully pleased and proud that you were called yes- 
terday to that hospital in Boston. My head is 
swelled over it if yours isn't." 

" Of course I was pleased that Dr. Halliwell 
wanted me but I learned a lot, too, and that is what 
counts most. Afterwards I had an adventure. Be- 
cause of my adventure we are out here in the harbor 
this afternoon." 

Elizabeth looked at him wonderingly. " So that 
was why you won't tell me where we are going. 
I thought it was probably a picnic." 

"No picnic beyond two doughnuts." Amory 
drew a paper bag from his pocket. " Dear me ! " 
he exclaimed anxiously, "they are not at all the 
same size." 

Producing a folding-rule, he devoted his full at- 
tention to those doughnuts with an absurd concern 
that convulsed Elizabeth. 

" You've measured them in every possible direc- 
tion. That one is bigger ; give it to me." 



404 JOUKNEY'S END 

" I won't," said Amory. " I'm bigger than you 
are." 

For two minutes they scrapped like children and 
finished by knocking one doughnut overboard. 
Peace restored, they scrupulously divided the re- 
maining one, Amory even counting out the crumbs 
by twos. 

" I think you might have sneaked an apple," he 
said reproachfully. " I was in a tearing hurry." 

" It isn't good for little boys to eat between meals. 
Tell me now about your adventure." 

" It was some adventure," said Amory, shutting 
his pocket-knife and rumpling his hair still more. 
" Luff a bit, Elizabeth. Well, when Halliwell asked 
me to come to town yesterday, my car was on the 
blink, so I took the train. After leaving the hos- 
pital, I started to walk to the station, through those 
crooked streets, you know, around the region of the 
old court-house." 

" Yes, I know. I'm always getting lost there." 

" Some unset stones in a jeweler's window caught 
my eye and I stopped to look at them. I never wore 
a ring in my life and never shall, except the plain 
one you will put on my finger, Queen Bess, but I 
like stones. You won't mind wearing them for me, 
will you? " 

Elizabeth's answer having been placed on record, 
Amory continued his story. 



THE DRAGON VANISHES FOREVER 405 

" I saw an uncommon opal and went in to look 
at it. The place was a sort of antique shop ; there 
were old silver things and curiosities, some of them 
valuable. I asked for the opal and while the man 
was getting it from the window, I looked about. 
What do you suppose I saw? " 

" Give it up ! '^ said Elizabeth promptly. " I hate 
to guess things, Amory." 

" Well,^^ said Amory dramatically, " on a stand 
behind the counter, large as life and twice as nat- 
ural, sat that Chinese dragon which lately graced 
the east parlor at Journey's End ! " 

Elizabeth was quite as much surprised as Amory 
anticipated. In her excitement, she very nearly 
fouled a fishing-boat. 

Having straightened out the Whitewing and 
given the fisherman a cheerful apology, Amory 
went on. 

"There it sat grinning devilishly, and, to my 
amazement, about its neck was the jade and pearl 
pendant which always hung there until Aunt 
Eunice gave it to Caroline ! 

" I asked to see it and the proprietor handed it 
over. It wasn't possible for me to be mistaken, — 
that was the identical dragon that I remember as 
long as I remember anything at Journey's End. I 
looked it over minutely and looked at the man in 
charge. He was elderly and evidently a gentleman, 



406 JOUKNEY'S END 

so finally I told him that I was interested in that 
dragon ; that I had seen it before, and that I should 
very much like to know how it came into his posses- 
sion. 

"He looked me over with equal keenness and 
concluded that there was no reason to suspect me 
of sinister designs, so he said frankly that there 
had been some kind of row and a stabbing affray 
in the Chinese quarter, the police were called in, 
and as a result this dragon found itself in court 
where nobody claimed it. After an interval he 
bought it. 

"I asked if anybody had been in to look at it 
since it came into his possession. He said it had 
not been displayed in the window, but that very 
morning a Chinese who chanced to enter the shop 
on another errand had examined it carefully and 
seemed rather excited about it. I asked if this 
customer wished to buy it and he said he made no 
offer and did not even ask its price. Then he openly 
asked me why I was interested. 

"After considering a moment, I told him the 
whole story. I could not see that it would do any 
harm. He was greatly interested and remarked 
that it was an odd affair. I told him all I knew, — 
what Uncle Henry told me — and there having al- 
ready been blood shed over it does go far toward 
proving his theory. While we were talking an- 



THE DRAGON YANISLJEfe FOREVER ^^^ 

other man came into the shop and the proprietor 
fairly fell upon his neck and dragged him to me, 
introducing him as Professor Nelson, the oriental- 
ist, you know. 

" Well, Queen Bess, we three had a heart-to-heart 
talk and I forgot all about my train to Freeport. 
I repeated my story for Professor Nelson's benefit 
and in return he told me why the dragon was de- 
sired by the Chinese. 

" According to Professor Nelson, the dragon is, 
or rather it represents, the tutelary spirit of a 
powerful and old secret society, originating in 
China, but with far-reaching branches in other 
countries. He obtained this information from the 
characters on the amulet, but he was unable to 
explain why the dragon should have stood for years 
on the mantel at Journey's End and have remained 
dormant, so to speak, until Aunt Eunice gave the 
jade pendant to Carol. He could only suggest that 
the Russell who originally brought it from China 
did so without being traced by any members of the 
Tong, but that Yin Luk must be one of them, and 
from seeing the amulet, knew that it came from this 
tutelary image of so much importance. 

" I remarked that the dragon must be far older 
than Yin Luk, since he was apparently around my 
own age. It was doubtless at Journey's End when 
he came into this world. 



493 J.OmtNEY'S END 

" Professor Nelson agreed, and said the dragon 
was centuries old, but so was the Tong, and the 
custom of reverencing it passed down from one 
generation to the next. He thought that the 
Chinese who came first to Journey's End, very 
likely not Yin himself, though certainly sent by 
Yin's connivance, came unprepared for the shock 
of being ushered straight into the presence of the 
lost treasure. Having already presented the letter 
of introduction, he did not dare to steal the dragon 
on the spot, but simply took French leave, for- 
getting in his excitement his hat and cane. He re- 
ported to headquarters and there followed the 
series of attempted burglaries, culminating in suc- 
cess. As to how the amulet and dragon again came 
together, he could offer no explanation, except that 
the same gang probably had a hand in it. It all 
sounds plausible enough, doesn't it? 

"As for its diabolical qualities, attributed by 
Yin in his tale to Caroline," Amory went on, " the 
professor sniffed. He said the members of the 
Tong might believe it possessed supernatural qual- 
ities, doubtless did so believe, and that the amulet, 
according to their notions, very probably was for 
the purpose of keeping it in check. He said there 
was an incredible amount of superstition connected 
with these tutelary images and no limit to the 
length the members would go in their respect for 



THE DRAGON VANISHES FOREYER 409 

them. He advised the proprietor of the shop to get 
rid of it at once. If he didn't, he would certainly 
arrive some morning to find that his place had been 
robbed. 

" To my amusement, the proprietor said he was 
convinced that the dragon was rightfully my prop- 
erty, and that he would let me have it for the very 
moderate amount he had paid, a sum that didn't 
begin to represent its real value as a work of art. 

" At this the professor smiled and offered me the 
same advice, saying if I took it home there would 
soon be more burglars, for the Tong was undoubt- 
edly again on its track. He said it was an ill thing 
to harbor, and would probably be a source of 
trouble until it was disposed of entirely. I asked if 
the amulet, which really belongs to Carol, was 
included in the curse and he said he thought not, 
that it was of importance only so long as the dragon 
was in existence." 

" And did you buy it? '' asked Elizabeth, who had 
listened absorbed. 

" I did. I gave him what he paid for it and I 
brought it with me to Freeport, but not to Jour- 
ney's End. That seemed too much like what I told 
you — coming home to roost, and bringing more 
trouble with it. I stuck it into one of those steel 
boxes in the station waiting-room where you check 
things and bring away the key. Then I thought it 



410 JOUKNEI-S ENI> 

over and concluded that ] * id a right to destroy 
the dragon if I wished. I know Aunt Eunice al- 
ways disliked it and openly said she was glad it 
was gone ; I am quite certain it had an ugly story, 
for Uncle Kobert would never tell me anything 
about it. Queen Bess, the ivory dragon is reposing 
in that locker yonder, and when we clear Clam as 
we shall do in five minutes — you'd better let me 
take the tiller for it looks pretty choppy — when we 
are out in open ocean, that dragon is going over- 
board and I hope it will never rise again. The 
pendant I took off and shall send back to Caroline.'' 

Presently they rounded Clam and the Whitewing 
keeled over under a stiffer breeze. Elizabeth 
opened the locker and let out the dragon. 

" It is ugly," she observed, " worse than that — 
it is wicked. I am glad it is never going to live 
with us. Do you suppose any Chinese knows that 
you got it again? " 

"I don't see how they could. The proprietor 
said if they inquired for the dragon, he should 
simply say that he sold it and he promised neither 
to describe me nor to give my name, which of course 
I told him. He was quite as anxious as I to get rid 
of the beast. I think the water is deep enough here, 
Elizabeth. Throw it over and may it never rise up 
to trouble any one." 

Elizabeth tossed the dragon to leeward and they 



THE DEAGON VANISHES FOREYEE 411 

both watched it disappear through a green wave. 
" I am glad it is gone,'' she said gravely. " I don't 
think it was ' canny,' as my Scotch nurse used to 
say. I should always have hated it, for it heard the 
hateful things I once said to you, Amory." 

Amory only smiled and drew her to a seat beside 
him. After drowning the dragon, he had imme- 
diately turned again toward the harbor, but they 
were far from any other boats. Elizabeth sat 
within his encircling arm, her head frankly on his 
shoulder, and they talked of their approaching 
wedding, set definitely for the middle of October. 

" Since we can't sail off in the Whitewing^ I am 
going to do something equally unconventional and 
unheard-of," she said. " I arranged it with Dad, 
who was delighted, and then broke the news to 
Mother, who sent for her smelling-salts. I don't 
quite know what you will say, Amory, but I sup- 
pose it is time you knew." 

" I'll try to bear up. Go ahead." 

" It may prove a shock," said Elizabeth saucily, 
"to hear that I intend to vanish for an entire 
week before my wedding, reappearing only the 
night before. Neither you nor Mother is to know 
where I am. I'm going to take a trial wedding-trip 
— with another man ! " 

Elizabeth didn't get the rise she expected. 
Amory merely kissed her cheek and laughed a little. 



412 JOTJKNEY'S END 

" Dear, that is sweet of you. I liave been feeling 
sorry for your father right along. He does so hate 
to give you up. I won't even ask where you are 
going." 

" Mother is in despair, but I am going to put it 
through even though nothing else gets done. I 
have seen more brides who were half dead with the 
fuss and confusion of that last week. I was brides- 
maid for Connie Haskell and she was so tired that 
she burst out crying while she was changing into 
her traveling dress. I will give in to Mother about 
everything else; I've let her plan a big church 
wedding, and I've been positively angelic about my 
clothes — ^you'll like those dresses, Amory, and Aunt 
Eunice" — Elizabeth gave a little laugh — "she 
won't lecture me for any of my hats. But since I 
am only going across the gardens to Journey's End, 
Mother hasn't any chance to plan for a house. I 
told her that we were to have a suite on the second 
floor, and that you were going to keep the room 
you've always had, and mine was to be the big front 
one on the same side with a door cut through to 
yours. The girls can open all the wedding gifts 
and list them and Mother can decide anything that 
comes up — she'd do it anyway, and Dad and I are 
going off in my car for a week. I shall devote my- 
self to making him have the nicest possible time. 
I'll tell Aunt Eunice where we shall be, so if there 



THE DEAGON VANISHES FOREVER 413 

really is something for which I absolutely have to 
be consulted, you and you alone will be able to 
reach me, but aside from that, it is to be a dead 
secret. I am coming home the night before my 
wedding perfectly fresh and rested and ready to be 
the best of comrades." 

" You're a brick. Queen Bess. I have pitied more 
than one poor little bride who was so worn out that 
she didn't have any fun." 

" I shall not be tired, and we'll have no end of 
fun. And you mustn't feel Dad is unwilling to let 
me marry you; he isn't, only he hates to give me 
up. He is so happy to think of our being alone to- 
gether a whole week. Is it too much to ask of you, 
Amory? " 

"It's nothing compared with what I asked of 
him. I shall find that week frightfully long and 
miss you horribly, but I love you for planning it." 

" I wish I didn't have to come back to a church 
wedding. What I'd like best of all is something I 
can't have, because it isn't my right, and that is an 
outdoor wedding in the garden of Journey's End. 
No, it can't be done; Mother would faint at the 
suggestion. But I'd love it. Was any girl ever 
married there?" 

" Not that I know of. Grandfather Russell had 
no daughters. Uftcle Robert brought Aunt Eunice 
there as a bride." 



414 JOURNEY'S END 

"Is that how the house got its name? From 

* journeys end in lovers meeting'?" 

Amory shook his head. " It has been that for us^ 
hasn't it? But Uncle Robert told me it was rather 

* Journeys end in welcome to the weary.' Why not 
call it both? " 

" Sometime," mused Elizabeth, her head still on 
Amory's shoulder, "the garden at Journey's End 
shall know a wedding. It can't be that of our son, 
because he will have to be married from the home 
of his fiancee. But our daughter" — Elizabeth 
went on shyly, with down-dropped lashes almost 
touching her cheek, — " our daughter shall be mar- 
ried in the garden in the time of larkspurs. She 
will believe it to be entirely her own idea, so tact- 
fully will it be put into her mind." 

" Suppose she is a contrary young person who 
prefers a December wedding?" asked Amory 
lightly but with an odd note in his voice. 

" She will be both good and beautiful, she will 
obey her mother and look precisely like her father." 

" And what? " asked Amory, tightening the arm 
that encircled Elizabeth and drawing her yet closer, 
" is the name of this happy little bride? " 

" Her name," replied Elizabeth, and a very lovely 
expression crossed the face she turned to Amory, 
" will be Eunice." 

THE END 



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